And the Adventure Continues
by Alfisti
Summary: "And the Adventure Continues"... for the SWA's globetrotting fratello that couldn't be truer as they attempt to unravel the Padania's spider web of supply lines. Carries on from the Jethro and Monty fancomic, OC based for now.
1. CH01 And the Adventure Continues

**AND THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction by Alfisti, based on works by Yu Aida. Special thanks to Professor Voodoo, owner or Elio Alboreto, Marisa and _Foreplay_ and Kiskaloo, owner of the Pagani fratello and _M/Y Bright Star_._

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><p><strong>AUTHOR'S NOTE:<strong> As the title suggests, this story leads on directly from previous works, namely the Jethro + Monty fancomic which can be found under wraith11 on deviantART. While it is hoped that "And the Adventure Continues" is written in a manner which will allow it to act as a standalone piece, it is recommended that the comic be read either prior to this story or at some point in the future. Events contained therein are relevant to this arc and shall continue to be throughout later planned chapters.

For those who _do_ decide to read the comic, you have my sincerest apologies for both the sub-standard writing and illustration work, particularly in earlier issues.

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><p><strong>CH01|And the Adventure Continues<strong>

It had once been said that if a Liberty Ship survived a single crossing of the Atlantic, then she had paid for her construction. If that were truly the case, then _SS Tempest_ had earned the keep of herself and her sisters a hundred fold times at least.

Despite her age, Captain Arthur Howell was proud of his ship. The steady eleven knots at which she currently steamed was certainly not the equal of more modern vessels, but her oil-fired engines were nigh unburstable and she was small enough that, from his position on the bridge, the captain could see everything that occurred upon her decks. She had other advantages as well: the vintage hull attracted exactly the right sort of attention, tourists and enthusiasts, which meant the authorities found it easier to leave _Tempest_ alone. It also allowed those clients who may have wished to avoid awkward questions to slip aboard under a handy, prefabricated cover.

On that thought, the captain's attention focused upon the slender, female figure standing on the ship's prow, looking at something on the horizon that apparently only it could see. Despite their being incongruously dressed for a sea voyage, Howell had not asked questions when this girl and the man with her had requested passage aboard his ship. They'd paid generously, up front and in cash, which was a combination that could buy _a lot_ of no questions asked. It had also been enough to acquire the captain's cabin for their own usage, which they'd locked and kept private since departing Algiers. That the girl could not have been more than half the age of her companion had set the ship's scuttlebutt alight, to a point where even Howell was starting to feel a certain level of unease over the whole arrangement. That was perhaps why he decided that his next action would best be carried out in person, rather than delegated to one of the crew.

"Mister el-Bayoumi," he said, turning to the bridge's other occupant, "hold course for Alexandria, and see to it we're ready to receive a pilot aboard. I'm going to go inform our guest there that she may wish to make herself scarce."

The Egyptian at the ship's helm nodded his understanding without saying a word and the captain allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as he made his way toward the main deck. His ship may be old, but her crew were efficient, competent and could be counted upon to complete their tasks without nannying.

* * *

><p>If Monty was aware of the captain's approach she didn't show it. Instead she continued to scan the horizon, hunkering down slightly in a thin turtleneck jumper which was proving insufficient protection against the chill evening air. Part of her wished she'd grabbed her trench coat to help ward off the stiffening sea breeze.<p>

"Ms. Archer."

Monty's head and eyes swivelled round, cool gaze sizing her addressor up over a shoulder. Perceiving no immediate threat she allowed herself a slow count to five before turning to face him.

"Ms. Archer, the pilot boat from Alexandria will be out to meet us shortly. I suggest you move yourself below decks."

"Understood Captain, I'll inform my uncle."

With a curt nod she brushed past Howell, close enough for him to catch a whiff of her dark, jasmine-tinged scent over the tang of salt, ozone and faint trace of oil that purveyed the ship itself. While the girl's actual age was a matter of some debate, the captain didn't think she could be more than fourteen, sixteen on the outside. However her stance and presentation were those of someone much older, and then of course, there was the man she'd accompanied aboard...

He shook himself mentally, in twenty-four hours they'd no-longer be his problem anyway.

* * *

><p>A short walk brought Monty to the cabin she shared with her partner. Glancing briefly backwards, the girl rapped sharply on the door in a sequence which would let him know she was alone and safe. Waiting half a second she opened a gap just wide enough to allow passage and slipped into the room beyond, before shutting the door smartly.<p>

Inside, her nose wrinkled as the acrid smell of hot plastic assaulted her nostrils, "Christ Guvnor, you wouldn't want to open a window at all would you?"

Jethro Blacker didn't turn away from where he was positioned at the captain's small writing desk, the hot clothes iron in his hand pressed down hard on something resting atop the woodwork. Resigned through experience to the idea that her handler was busy right now and wouldn't be responding until finished, Monty leaned back against the door, folded her arms and started to give her report.

"Captain Howell has informed me that the ship will be taking an Alexandrian pilot aboard shortly, so we'd best stay below decks till docked. Pity, I was hoping to get a look at the harbour on our way in."

Jethro withdrew the iron briefly then, working steadily across the object in front of him, started making small circles with the tip. This action however apparently signified the end of his need to give full attention to the task in front of him.

"Well, Alexandria does have a tricky entrance. It shouldn't be a big surprised that even smaller vessels need a pilot. Besides luv, if we saw everything before we arrived, where would all the fun and surprises come from?"

Monty's expression flattened and she fixed her handler with a deadpan gaze, "I'd be perfectly content without either just right now thank _you,_ we've had plenty enough of both this month already."

"Monaco turned out alright."

"_Monaco_ ended with Nick and Shamus turning up dead for reasons unknown and their boat drifting in the Mediterranean. I'm not certain the description of _alright _is entirely apt under the circumstances."

"Ok, let me rephrase that: the job _itself_ turned out alright, the latter's just bloody worrying..."

Pushing herself away from the door, Monty stepped over to her companion who had now set the iron down and dropped what he had been working on into a bowl of water. Noticing her presence, Jethro wrapped an arm around his cyborg, and threw her a lopsided half grin.

"...but hey, that's what we're here for: find some answers."

Monty pulled a sour face, "Every time we do that all we seem to wind up with is more questions… How're those going?"

The last was directed at the bowl of water in front of her.

"Don't know yet."

Jethro fished a small, bedraggled rectangle of plastic out of the water and started carefully rubbing away at the sodden paper fused to its face with his thumb. Once it was removed, he handed the cleaned plastic to Monty. From a square on the card's surface, a slightly fuzzy version of her own likeness scowled out with the word "EUROPOL" printed up the side in block capitals.

"It still needs aging, but I'd say that's one library card that didn't die in vain," said Jethro happily.

Extracting herself from her handler's grasp, Monty turned the card over, running her thumb up the magnetic strip on the back and cocked a questioning eyebrow.

This time it was Jethro's turn to pull a face, "Still no luck finding something to restripe those with, you'd think a ship this old would have a tape-deck or a VCR or _something_ onboard. As it is we'll just have to wipe it and cross our fingers that flashing these around a bit will be enough to get aboard _Foreplay_. Given time we could probably do better, but this tramper isn't precisely a goldmine of forgery equipment."

Monty looked down at what had once been a library card belonging to one of Michele Pagani's crew, commandeered before _M/Y Bright Star_ had dropped her and her handler off in Algiers.

"We'll make do. By the time Alboreto got back to Rome with our report and the Agency higher-ups had cleared impersonating Europol personnel..."

"You seem to be making a habit of that," interrupted Jethro, "sending paperwork back to the SWA with Alboreto I mean."

"It was _once,_ in Bruges," deadpanned Monty, eyeing her handler.

"And now twice, you're starting a pattern."

"Quiet."

In truth, the decision to send reports and paperwork back to the Social Welfare Agency's headquarters near Rome with the Alboreto and Pagani fratelli had been of twofold origin. First it was guaranteed secure delivery, something neither electronic nor more traditional forms of transmittal could offer. Secondly, and to some extent more importantly in the Blackers' opinions, the extra time taken prevented the Agency from learning what they were planning to do until they'd already done it, thereby circumventing a certain amount of bureaucratic horse trading. For Monty at least, it had never occurred that the SWA might itself _prefer _not to know. If the Blacker fratello ever dropped the ball, then that organization would be able claim ignorance of its agents' actions and possibly deflect some of the inevitable governmental fallout... and for the Agency's international "away team", the amount of potential fallout to be generated could be substantial.

The disadvantage of course was that, without knowing what the Blackers' next move was, the Agency was in turn unable to provide support. In the cyborg's opinion that wasn't such a bad thing as it kept traceable links back to Rome at a minimum and fortunately, Monty had been given a master forger for a handler. Advantageous in many respects... she looked over at her partner who was back at work, quietly humming something from a west end musical... even if it was sometimes more akin to being paired with a small child.

Devoid of anything more pressing to do for the next few hours, the cyborg retrieved her laptop and settled in to read the Agency's latest intelligence packet. Technically intended for her handler, the document had arrived travelling the opposite direction to her own reports, with the Alboreto fratello from Rome.

* * *

><p>The last dregs of sunset were fading into an inky night by the time <em>SS Tempest<em> bumped up against the dock fenders of the Port of Alexandria. Another hour, filled with the clank and scrape of break cargo being unloaded, passed before Monty finally closed down her computer and slipped it into her waiting duffle bag. Jethro, now dressed in a slate grey two-button suit, handed one of the completed Europol IDs to his cyborg, then stood back to size the girl up.

"Are you sure you're happy in that?"

Monty looked down at her own outfit; a plain charcoal skivvy top, black leggings and flats.

"No, but since we came straight from Monaco, I've not got anything suitable both for nocturnal sneaking _and_ going out on a town that still prefers its women with their knees covered."

"Touché," returned Jethro, shrugging his assent; the wardrobe they'd packed for the flash and glamour of the French Riviera was ill at ease here on the Mediterranean's more conservative southern shore. The thought though, twigged something else. "Speaking of, where _is_ the car right now?"

"If everything's running on schedule, which I doubt it will be, it'll leave Felixstowe tomorrow evening," responded Monty, referring to the Audi estate that served both as the nomadic fratello's home and wardrobe, and which had been left in England during their previous job for reasons of security. "I'll find somewhere to change once we're out of the port."

A tap on their door heralded the arrival of one of the crew. Jethro picked up his and Monty's heavy suitcase and one of the duffels whilst Monty grabbed the second, lighter bag as befitting a girl of her stature.

"Mr. Archer, Ms." said the captain, as the cabin door opened, "A customs friend of mine has graciously agreed to look the other way tonight. When the wharfies take smoko in another five or so, we'll take you ashore. There's a covered truck waiting near the gate, the driver thinks there's a problem with his ID..."

"Work of the same friend?" queried Jethro.

Howell apparently chose not to answer that, instead turning on his heel and leading the fratello toward the exterior of the ship. Outside, the noises of a port at work had subsided to distant clangs and rumbles as the general cargo crews retired to their huts. In and around the industrial sounds, Monty's sensitive cyborg ears could now also just pick out the faint hum of human chatter from the well lit passenger cruise terminal, visible just beyond the general cargo area's fence. Confirming that the coast was clear with one of his men stationed on the dock, the captain motioned Jethro and Monty forward.

They moved quickly down the gangway and across an open expanse of concrete between the ship and wharf warehouses. Finally in the shadows of shipping containers, stacked neatly next to the warehouse wall, the little group found sufficient cover to stop and take stock.

Handing Jethro a scrap of paper, Captain Howell motioned up toward the far end of the warehouse, "Your transport should be just around the corner there. That bit of paper there's got the registration number on it just in case."

Jethro quickly scanned the piece of paper, committing the truck registration to memory before passing it to Monty who completed the same process with similar expediency and handed it back to the captain.

"Thank you for your help Captain Howell," said Jethro, but only received a grunt in reply as the captain turned from the fratello, moving back toward his ship.

Once he'd disappeared from sight, Monty gave a slow count to ten to make sure the man was well clear before addressing her handler, "Do you want I should run a rooftop recce?"

Jethro shook his head. "Not this time luv," he replied, nodding toward the passenger terminal. "That upper floor has a sight line on the top of this warehouse. For now, I think it'd be wisest if we stuck to the shadows at ground level. Go check on our transport though."

Without waiting for further instruction, Monty set her bag down and scampered quickly and quietly toward the land-end of the warehouse. She stopped short of the corner, straining to hear what might be going on out of sight. No sounds of people: good, but also no sound of a truck: not so good. Carefully she crept up to the corner and, tensing to run if required, peeped cautiously round.

No truck.

"_Bollocks."_

Moving swiftly back to her handler the girl delivered her bad news. "Skipper, our transport's not there."

"Do you think it's late, or been moved?"

"Doubt it," growled the cyborg. "Howell said the driver was already there, so I think it's _gone_. Probably his tame customs official wasn't quite as reliable as expected."

"Or we've been setup," said Jethro, voicing that unpleasant thought.

Monty eyed at her watch. The Heuer Camaro's red seconds hand swept around inside its own little black dial, counting off time she didn't have. "I doubt we're going to have time to go searching, the dock workers should be coming off their break any time now. Ideas?"

Jethro looked around, taking in what avenues were available to him, which were limited at best. There was back to the ship, which would do them no good at all. Behind, the bulk of the warehouse would lend cover but only take them further into the port complex. The other two options were a well lit stretch of concrete to the road fence or the cruise liner terminal.

"The cruise terminal, we'll get out through there."

Monty eyed the approach dubiously; a wide stretch of concrete with sparse cover to a guard station and single vehicle parked beside it, presumably belonging to the guard inside. Beyond that, two vehicle gates next to each other lead into the public terminal area. Unfortunately her handler was right: it was the lesser of all presented evils.

"Ok, but I go first and you give me the heavy bags."

Without waiting for her handler's response, Monty grabbed the large suitcase and heavier of the two duffels with her other hand to balance herself, lifting both easily with cybernetic strength. Jethro, already at the edge of the shipping container stack, motioned for her to join him. As the cyborg came up level he placed a hand lightly on the nape of her neck, signalling a stop while he made himself comfortable that the area was clear.

"Go."

The hand was removed and Monty was off, sprinting low across the exposed hardstand, head constantly moving left and right, up and down. Coming to a halt next to a stack of shipping pallets, she spared a quick glance back for her handler before scanning the area ahead and waved him forward. Now it was Jethro's turn to duplicate her run, low and fast across the open ground… then straight past his cyborg to the gate-guard's hut, crouching down in the gap between its wall and the car stationed beside it. Remaining behind, Monty kept watch while Jethro rummaged in the bag he was carrying. Extracting a shaving mirror from his dopp kit the handler cautiously raised it above the window ledge, using its reflection to survey what lay beyond. Seemingly satisfied with what he saw, he waved his cyborg over.

"Can't win tonight, there's only one guard," Jethro kept his voice pitched low, "but it must be the start of his shift because the silly blighter actually looks attentive."

Monty made a face, "Think we can entice him out of there?"

Jethro shrugged, it might be possible, but the options for viable distractions around him were as limited as ways to escape the port itself.

More precious seconds ticked away.

"I could knock over some of those shipping pallets, draw his attention," suggested Monty.

"You're at the docks luv, loud crashes won't raise any eyebrows..."

Monty gave her handler a quizzical look as his sentence tailed off.

"Give me your lockpicks."

Extracting from her bag a soft leather wallet, the cyborg presented it to her handler who unrolled the black package extracting two dull, blued-steel tools. Working quickly he inserted both into the lock of the car door in front of him.

"What're you up to?" whispered Monty, looking on.

"I figure knocking things over won't draw enough attention, but a car running into them just might..."

The lock clicked open and a piercing wail shattered the night.

"...or-the-car-alarm-that-could-work-too."

"Plan?"

"Basically? _Run._"

Jamming lock picks and wallet in his pocket, Jethro snatched up the light duffel and sprinted for the back of the guardhouse, Monty close behind with the two larger bags. They ducked behind the structure just as the guardsman came crashing out the front door. Frantically trying to shut his car alarm off, the man never saw two shadowy figures dash across the concrete threshold, through the gates and into the relative safety of the darkened gardens next to the cruise terminal entrance.

Jethro and Monty fetched up against the wall below the terminal main entrance stair, resting beside a service door in the block work. Jethro was breathing heavily after their flat-out sprint, but his face was split in a manic grin, "Whew! Well, that was certainly more fun than coming in through the airport."

His cyborg however seemed less entertained, "Just give my bloody lock picks back."

Jethro handed them over and she got to work on the service entrance lock.

"You realize there's a perfectly good door just above us right? It's bigger too, columns and everything."

"Yes," replied Monty, taking a second to fix her handler with a hard stare, "but I can't very well go wandering through dressed up as a cat burglar, not to mention walking in with luggage then walking immediately out again may raise a few eyebrows."

There was a click as the door swung open and the two partners slipped quickly inside, relocking it behind themselves. Ahead was a small storage area, apparently used for gardening equipment and a service corridor stretching off to their right, terminating at a pair of swing doors on the far end. The fratello hurried down it, emerging cautiously through the "staff only" entrance to find themselves in front of a set of toilets on the left, with stairs opposite leading presumably, to the main concourse.

"Take this," instructed Monty, handing off the suitcase to Jethro. "I'll join you up above in a minute."

With that she disappeared with her duffel into the female bathroom. Once inside she found a free cubicle and, offering up a quick prayer of thanks for finding one with a throne to set her bag down on rather than a trough, set to work. Quickly she stripped off the black skivvy top and unzipped the bag, extracting from it a carefully rolled and packed YSL Mondrian dress and small, black pistol. Checking that she had a round chambered and the safety on, Monty strapped her Walther PPK on over her leggings, high up her thigh. Then on went the dress, falling to cover the gun in its holster and off came her flats, replaced with knee high white gogo boots. Stuffing the discarded garments back into the duffel, Monty exited the cubicle and took a moment to inspect herself in the bathroom mirror. Having run a hand over her head to smooth her short auburn hair, and straightening a few imaginary creases in her dress, she seemed satisfied with the view and exited the bathroom, every inch the glamorous, poster child cruise liner passenger.

In the main concourse Jethro was waiting for her, now carrying a Lonely Planet guide to Egypt and tourist map of Alexandria. As his cyborg walked up, the handler gave her a quick one armed hug before picking up the suitcase and other duffel again.

"Shall we go find a taxi?"

"Lets."

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes later, a black and yellow taxi dropped the fratello off outside the Sofitel Cecil Alexandria hotel. Paying the fare they'd negotiated at the port, Jethro thanked the driver and let the taxi go. Monty however was looking sour.<p>

"I hate to do this to you Guv, but we may need to do a spot of shopping tomorrow. I figured I might get away in this here," she said, picking at her dress, "you know, tourism and all. But somehow I get the impression being clothed for Monaco is rubbing a few local karmas up the wrong way."

Jethro took another look at his cyborg, remembering her own attempts to negotiate a fare at the port, "He probably just took you for another rude tourist, though covering up a mite more would probably be polite."

"I don't much care if it's polite or not," Monty retorted, "but reactions like that are going to make my life _difficult_."

"Ok, we'll find you something more fitting to the local sensibilities tomorrow," said Jethro, seeing his girl was in no mood to be placated. "Until then, playing tourist for a bit may not be a bad idea. Come on."

With that they headed not for the hotel, but into central Alexandria itself, disappearing among the melee of the port city's night time streets. For the next three quarters of an hour they wandered, seemingly aimlessly and luggage in hand, in a pattern intended to help identify and lose any potential pursuers. Occasionally they'd stop to consult the map and guidebook, or accost a local for directions to some hotel on the far side of the city. Eventually, the two lost tourists gave in, settling down in a café full of other tourists for a rest. Heads bowed again over their guidebook and map they let Alexandria bustle past, locals and travellers alike, all in search of a good time or on other business known only to those partaking in it.

Presently two espressos arrived, which Monty dipped into their dwindling supply of local currency to purchase. Once the waiter had gone, she had a sip and put the tiny cup down looking unimpressed. Apparently in a city famed for its abundance of cafés they'd managed to find one which didn't know how to make coffee. In hindsight, she suspected that probably explained the number of tourists and lack of locals making use of its services.

The taste of burnt grindings still fresh on her tongue, Monty started, "I don't think that was worth the money."

Jethro took his own taste, "Try to look on the bright side: it's caffeinated..."

"That's about all it is."

"...but if it placates you any, think of it as paying for the seats."

Monty shifted in what she was now apparently paying for; causing the aged bent wood construction to creak worryingly. Lowering her head again over the guidebook, she trusted noise from the mass of humanity streaming past to mask her next words.

"I think finding a hotel might be a good idea," she started, apparently speaking to the book on the table in front of her, "something close to the port. This 'Hotel Union' or the Metropole both look promising."

Jethro took a moment to skim the entries his cyborg was pointing to while she kept talking, "The Union's cheaper and probably more the sort of thing Europol would book for its agents, but the Metropole has internet and a currency exchange which could come in handy."

Jethro took a moment to weigh the options, "Well we're not short of cash after Monaco, but it's all in Euro and the local money changers mostly want to see a passport or similar. That's fair enough I suppose... however I'm also running short of clean clothes, don't know about you, and I see Le Metropole has a laundry service."

"Le Metropole it is then."

Unwilling to attempt another run in with the café's coffee, Jethro and Monty quickly drained their cups and, leaving enough of a tip to seem polite, returned to the streets. Pausing occasionally to again consult the map, point out a sight or fend off the occasional street hawker, they charted a similarly meandering course as earlier, slowly moving toward Alexandria's East Harbour waterfront. There they turned west toward the port, adopting the leisurely pace of those around them, and joined the throng of tourists and relaxing locals taking an evening stroll down the Corniche.

It was perhaps that slower pace which caused the hurrying young man to crash into Jethro. Bouncing off the taller Englishman he bowed his apologies and made to move on. However he didn't get more than a few steps before finding himself sprawled on the ground, being offered a hand up by an unconvincingly apologetic Monty, whose booted foot had somehow got tangled in his legs. Helping the man to his feet and still voicing her concerns, she used her free hand to quietly liberate her handler's wallet from the would-be pickpocket, before sending him on his way.

"You know, I never feel quite at home in a city until someone tries to rob me," quipped Jethro, accepting his property back from his cyborg, who merely responded with a wry grimace. The idea of having to scrap a perfectly good alias thanks to encountering some of the local colour held little appeal. Adding to her worries, the fratello had intended to travel back to England after Monaco rather than continuing on, so spare identities right now were in short supply, which brought up another uncomfortable concern.

"I assume you've started giving some time to how we're getting back out of here?" put in Monty, dropping a none-too-subtle hint that if her handler hadn't, he possibly _should_ be.

Jethro let the question hang for a few seconds whilst he arranged his thoughts. "A little perhaps... if we have the time I'd quite like to get our passports stamped and sorted, there's generally someone around who will do that for a price. It'd be nice to keep what aliases we have left as above board as possible."

Monty wasn't going to argue that point. Travelling across international borders was much easier done on a passport, even if the passport in question was for someone who didn't technically exist. After their clandestine arrival, the fratello was going to have to pick up their pattern of mostly legal emigration eventually, and as far as the cyborg was concerned: the sooner the better.

Jethro continued, "If we don't have the time, I guess we could catch another ship out or drive across the border once the car arrives, then get back on passports somewhere else. Worst comes to worst we could even organize a cinema..."

"I think we'll need to wait for the car one way or the other," put in Monty, "there's no-one really handy here to forward it onto us again."

The Blackers' relaxed pace eventually drew them level with the wide Saad Zaghoul Square, over which the white edifice of Le Metropole hotel presided. As promised by the Lonely Planet, Le Metropole turned out to be a masterpiece of faded French Colonial glamour and opulence. Ornate, albeit slightly crumbly plaster work, cool stone flooring polished within an inch of its life and tired Louis XVI era furnishings greeted the fratello as they made their way to the check-in desk.

There they were greeted by a friendly and helpful Arab girl who informed them in pleasantly accented English that yes, the hotel would happily accept their payment in cash Euro, and change whatever other amounts they required into Egyptian Pounds. However she only had a city-side standard room left with two beds.

Jethro appeared to consider this briefly and shot Monty a glance, "Are you sure you've nothing on the water side? We were really hoping for sea views."

The girl took in the middle aged man and young girl standing in front of her and consulted her computer, "Well sir, we do have a superior room, but it only has a single queen bed."

"That will do fine."

A flash of disapproval passed over the girl's face at that, but was quickly gone. She was paid to fill rooms after all, not to pass judgement on those seeking lodging.

"Indeed sir, and how long did you wish to stay for?"

Jethro shared another glance with his cyborg who replied, "five days to start, with the option to extend should we require it."

The girl's fingers flew across her keyboard, filling in data, until presently the banshee screech of a dot matrix printer signalled that she was finished. Removing the completed form she handed it across the desk along with a ballpoint pen.

"Now if you could just sign here, and date that, I'll take your fee and a deposit and get the porter to show you to your room."

* * *

><p>The hotel's elevator was an ancient wooden contraption with a staircase running around it, and which required the porter to hold both inner and outer doors open for his guests to enter or exit. Two bowel loosening lurches and a second short struggle with the doors later, the fratello were deposited safely on the fourth floor and shown to their room. High ten foot ceilings and walls decorated with ornate wallpaper served to give the otherwise small floorplan a sense of airy space. Slender French doors, hung with somewhat aged gauze drapes, opened out onto a Parisian style balcony with a spectacular view out across the East Harbour to the yacht club and beyond to the Mediterranean proper.<p>

Tipping the porter with some freshly exchanged currency, Jethro closed and secured the door, then started working his way clockwise around the room. Monty mirrored his circuit, going anti-clockwise: checking in light fittings, behind paintings, in the phone, behind seat cushions, seemingly partaking in a scavenger hunt only the fratello knew the point of. Halfway through, cyborg and handler crossed and began working over the side of the room just vacated by the other, finally meeting back at the door.

"Looks clear to me," stated Jethro quietly.

Monty nodded her agreement. While she hadn't really expected to find any bugs or traces, one of the first things Jethro had taught her had been that, in the espionage business, a certain level of professional paranoia was an essential survival skill.

"I don't like this high ceiling, makes it difficult to check the cornice."

"Can you see anything?"

Monty slowly scanned the upper portions of the room, moving along the wall opposite what she was viewing and using her acute cyborg vision to try and detect anything out of place: a stray shadow or patch on the wall, even a bit of out of place colour. Her efforts however were hampered by the vintage decoration's fine patterning.

"Nothing that I can make out."

"Then that'll have to do." Jethro paused, and a wry expression coloured his features, "Lets face it; the walls here are probably so thin anyone who wants to listen in won't need a bug, an upside down glass on the plaster would be perfectly adequate."

With that he shrugged off his jacket and hung it neatly in the hotel's supplied wardrobe. His black knit tie was draped over the hanger rail as well before removing the light shoulder holster he wore; complete with the slightly battered looking black SIG P230 it contained. Those were placed under the bedside table closest to the window. Previous experience had taught Jethro the futility of trying to argue who got the side of the bed closest the door with his cyborg. For similar reasons he'd not been allowed choice of the aisle seat on an aeroplane since his tenure with the SWA had commenced almost two years previous. That latter though he sometimes suspected was simply because Monty liked the extra space and instant access to her hand luggage.

He looked over to where Monty was; skinny almost to the point of fragility, few people would have suspected that this girl could shrug off small arms fire or throw grown men around as if they were sacks of dirty washing. Currently she had released the leather belts which secured their beaten black and orange Globe Trotter suitcase closed and was rapidly transferring its contents into the supplied storage with a practiced hand.

"I don't think the receptionist was too well impressed by us," Jethro stated, reaching over his cyborg to pluck a fresh set of underwear from the suitcase before Monty could stow them.

"I didn't notice."

Rummaging now for his dopp kit, Jethro hid a fond but weary smile. Intelligent and efficient she may have been, but social skills were something they still needed to work on. "Either way I'm plenty content to play the weary traveller tonight. If you want to order up some room service, I'm going for a shower."

"You can play as weary as you like, but snore or stray from your own side of the bed and you're on the couch."

* * *

><p>It was pushing nine am by the time a much better rested Blacker fratello descended the stairs to Le Metropole's ground floor. Hand resting lightly on the nape of his cyborg's neck, Jethro guided her gently toward the breakfast room. A soft word to the maître d' secured them a secluded table near the back of the space, which was slowly emptying as the business crowd headed out to its various engagements. That left the Blackers with just the tourists for company, causing Monty to growl something quiet and unintelligible about loud Americans into her continental breakfast. Jethro, on the other hand had gone the full English, both out of respect to his heritage and as a result of only having felt up to a light meal the night before. This however he now left mid-bite, returning with a second cup of coffee for his cyborg. While she may not have thought highly of the drip filtered product, it was caffeine and would he hoped, in sufficient quantities have the desired effect of bringing her personality out of the doldrums. Still, he gave the girl another five minutes and a third cup before attempting to discuss the day ahead.<p>

"We might get your shopping done straight after breakfast so we can move around a bit more freely. Then I'd like to have a stab at finding somewhere to get a good view of the West Harbour; if we can find_ Foreplay_ just by looking, rather than imprinting ourselves in the memories of the local populace, so much the better."

Monty nodded slowly, "The Ferretti's not exactly a pretty boat, if _Foreplay'_s there it shouldn't be a great stretch to pick her out. I was hoping to get a look on the way in, but obviously the pilot boat put paid to that idea. Right now though, my major concern is if she's being held in one of the military areas; that could complicate things."

"I'd say that'd be highly and unfortunately likely. Just to complicate things further I'm not even sure we'll find a good lookout." Jethro suddenly looked slyly at his cyborg, "Though I guess if it really came down to it you _could_ climb a minaret or something."

Monty gave a derisive snort, "You're been spending too much time around _Marisa_, the crazy's rubbing off."

She took another sip of the bland, tourist focused coffee before continuing, "Either way, do we have a plan B yet? Because I had a flick through some of the news sites this morning and there was no mention of where _Foreplay_ was, just that the police had towed her to Alexandria and taken Nick and Shamus's bodies off for examination. Everything beyond that was just the tabloids spouting their usual drivel."

"If only they knew the real story, those reporters would have a field day."

"But that's just it isn't it," Monty grouched. "Even _we_ don't know. Last we heard, _Foreplay _left Monaco with Nick and Shamus breathing and upright. The how; the what and most concerningly; the _who_, between there and Alex are still a mystery."

Jethro reached across the table to give his cyborg's hand a reassuring squeeze, "Then what say we be about it?"

* * *

><p>Fortunately, one thing Alexandria did not want for were places to acquire clothes. Bustling streets were lined with small shops, their wares out for the world to see, protected from the harsh Egyptian sun by awnings and all competing with one another for the customer's attention. Men and women alike haggled over prices, sometimes bargaining hard, or throwing in another item in the hope it may sweeten a deal. The younger crowd however confined itself more to the air conditioned malls, lined with designer shops, their windows displaying everything they believed the modern, chic Alexandrian may desire.<p>

It was one of these latter that equipped Monty with a light, white cotton blouse of which she rolled the sleeves up and tucked loosely into wide, kakhi linen slacks, pressed neatly with a crisp crease down the front. Back at the hotel were added a wide red belt and black flats. Large, white framed vintage sunglasses finished the look with a red gossamer silk headscarf, bought from a street seller, covering her hair and draped casually over one shoulder. She was just tucking her PPK into its holster in the small of her back, where the fold of the blouse would keep it concealed, when Jethro entered.

"You good to go?"

Monty nodded, "Yes, hopefully this'll be enough to tide me over till the car turns up."

"Good, because we've got some walking to do," Jethro said, "I asked the concierge, but he couldn't think of anywhere that'd give us a good vantage point on the whole harbour. Actually, he seemed a mite confused when I said I wanted to look at the west basin rather than the east."

Monty could understand the bafflement the man might have felt at her handler's request. The West Harbour contained Alexandria's commercial and military port, rather than the east's picturesque fishing and pleasure craft.

"Do I even want to know what story you spun?"

Jethro grinned, "Said I used to be in the merchant marine and found looking at freighters nostalgic."

Monty eyed off her partner: slender but fit, in artfully faded coffee chinos, a blue and white striped button up shirt with the sleeves loosely rolled and a pair of Ray Ban wayfarer sunglasses hanging from the undone collar. The whole look was finished with a white flat cap and sand coloured suede desert boots. If there was any merchant marine in that makeup it was during a time long past.

She cocked an eyebrow, "Did he buy it."

Jethro shrugged, "Seemed too."

The cyborg sighed and shook her head; dress aside, her handler's ability to create seemingly limitless bullshit on the spot and importantly, make people believe him, would never cease to amaze her…

'C'mon luv, lets avast and set sail from this land-lubberish establishment to look upon the fine ships of the West Harbour."

…as would his ability to turn instantly juvenile.

Monty's eyes narrowed as she growled back, "Cut that out you, or you'll be walking the plank to the briny deep and I'll finish this job on my own."

Jethro flashed his cyborg a big grin, "Lucky for you then we're heading for the seaside. I think we'll do the west-facing vantage points first… so start up near Citadel Qaitbay and work our way inland then around."

* * *

><p>A tram carried the fratello from Ramal Station, just on the square outside their hotel, to within walking distance of Qaitbay Citadel. Built on the site of the destroyed Pharos Lighthouse by Sultan Al-Ashraf Qaitbay, the monolithic fortress had stood guard over Alexandria's East harbour since the 15th century. Now the fort's canon had fallen silent, replaced by the snap of camera shutters as thousands of tourists took advantage of the same views that had allowed it to defend the city for so many centuries.<p>

Jethro and Monty however did not join them, instead heading west and strolling toward the sea-front before turning inland. Keeping to the highest ground they could find, they maintained a leisurely pace, stopping every so often to take a photo with the small digital camera Monty carried, consult a map or discuss some point of interest… two tourists getting off the beaten path and exploring the city backstreets. Anyone interested enough to have observed them for awhile may have noticed that they tended to stop more when their sight line gave them a view of the port, and that one of the two seemed to be getting less and less enthusiastic about the whole undertaking.

"This is ridiculous," stated Monty, stopping to take a swig from her plastic water bottle. "We're just not getting high enough to see anything more than shipping containers and warehouses and the back end of the odd Greek carrier if we're lucky."

"Agreed," conceded Jethro. "I've never truly appreciated before just how bloody _flat _Alexandria is. What say we try something a bit more targeted?"

Taking the guidebook from him, Monty started flicking through the pages, "Well I don't think we want to be visiting the cruise terminal again anytime soon if we can avoid it… Citadel Qaitbay's too far away to give a good view… Pompey's Pillar might be worth a go though."

Moving around behind his cyborg, Jethro put an arm around her and bent down to read the entry over her shoulder, "'Highest ancient monument in Alexandria', sounds hopeful..."

He removed the now slightly dog-eared tourist map from his back pocket, unfolded it and, after a slight faff to collapse it back down to the section showing Pompey's Pillar, laid the paper over the top of Monty's book, "...it's almost two clicks back from the port though."

"We'll buy some binoculars. Hopefully it'll at least let us take a look at the military prohibited zone."

* * *

><p>"Well, so much for <em>that <em>brilliant plan."

The Blacker fratello had caught another of the ubiquitous Alexandria trams as close to the tourist site as they could, then taken the short climb to the top of the hill that the pillar was situated on. It had occurred to both that for a major landmark, the area seemed to be almost devoid of tourist traffic. Now they knew why.

Monty stood scowling and holding her iPhone up in front of her. On it was the digital image of a 19th century print tagged "View from Pompey's Pillar" which she'd dredged up off Google during the ride over. On the LCD screen was depicted the pillar, standing high above the city, with a clear and unobstructed view out toward the two harbours. Now in the present day, the sightline to the harbour was marred by three ugly and weather beaten high-rise apartment blocks, three of the many which now towered over "the highest monument in Alexandria", like rugby players over a geek who'd accidentally strayed into their locker room.

"I am _really_ starting to think we should try a different tack," grumbled Monty, eyeing the buildings sourly. Not only had she now wasted another hour of the day, but also the fifteen Egyptian Pound per-head entry fee to the pillar site _and_ the cost of the, admittedly rather good, binoculars that had been bought en route.

"Concur," replied her handler. "I don't know about you but I'm famished. What say we take some time to grab lunch and regroup?"

"I don't know Skipper, we've already wasted half a day. It's only going to be a matter of time before the authorities move _Foreplay_ on…"

Jethro gave his cyborg a hard look, "Allow me to rephrase that: we're getting lunch. Half an hour to rest and take stock won't do any harm at all." A wry half grin now creased his features, "Besides, I'm hungry and I _know_ you don't function well on an empty stomach."

The last point Monty grudgingly had to concede. Unable to store energy in the form of body fat, the cyborgs needed to keep themselves fuelled to maintain peak performance. Without regular meals, their much vaunted strength and speed would drop off, their mental faculties would be compromised and, in extreme cases, could suffer a severe hypoglycaemic reaction. Monty knew she had it better than most of her sisters on that particular front. With the understanding that she and her handler would be deployed far from SWA support for months at a time, the doctors and engineers at the Agency had cut Monty's peak strength back slightly from the standard Generation 2 norm, effectively detuning the cyborg. The upshot was that she could go longer between routine maintenance and used up her energy less quickly. However, even she couldn't run on nothing.

"_Fine_, food first."

* * *

><p>The fratello spent another ten minutes at the pillar, taking time to save more images to the camera's memory card before descending back into the city streets. Ironically, it was at the base of one of the three blocks which had irked Monty so much beforehand that they found a small café, where a casually dressed waiter provided menus and a bottle of table water, before leaving them in peace. After a quick skim of the offerings, Monty excused herself to find the ladies' room, returning a few minutes later with an armful of cheaply produced newsprint.<p>

"What is that?" questioned Jethro warily, eyeing his cyborg over the top of his menu.

"Back issues of the local rag… don't look like that I didn't scavenge them from the _loo_… they were on the counter for customers to read. I figure they'd be worth looking through to see if there's any mention of _Foreplay_ or her whereabouts."

Jethro lifted the top, most recent newspaper from the pile and inspected it, "Monty, luv, this is in Egyptian Arabic… you can't read that."

"I know, you're still teaching me," she offered her handler an impish smile, "which is why _I'm_ going to look at the pictures and _you_ are going to read it."

Jethro groaned internally, that one he'd walked right into. Hoping to delay the inevitable a few more minutes he tried changing tactics, "Have you decided what you want to eat?"

Picking up the first paper, Monty eyed him over the top of the thin print stock, "You just said it yourself: I can't read the menu. If they do a club sandwich I'll have that, otherwise pick me something you think I'll like."

Having leafed through the list of offerings while Monty was otherwise indisposed, Jethro thought her chances of getting a club sandwich in this particular café looked slim at best. Fortunately, despite Monty's comment, neither fratello member was averse to playing "food bingo", so ordering local wasn't going to be an issue. He eventually settled on lamb torly for himself and kofte kebabs for his cyborg, both served on rice. As the waiter left with their order, Monty handed over the first newspaper that she'd finished with and Jethro settled in to skim the flowing Arabic type, looking for any mention of their former team-mates' yacht.

The pattern continued, Monty hunting for pictures which might give some hint to _Foreplay's_ location and Jethro skimming the copy, without much success until the fratello's meals arrived… whence the exercise was dispensed with temporarily in favour of food.

Reaching across the table, Jethro used his fork to pick up the last bit of Monty's kebabs and was thrown an unimpressed look, one eyebrow raised, for his troubles.

"Lay off, I haven't had kofta since last time I was in Turkey," Jethro paused for a second, apparently remembering something. "Sorry, time _before_ last time I was in Turkey."

"And that was?" quizzed Monty.

Jethro looked thoughtful again, "Would have been, I'd say, about two or three months before I met you actually… forgery job. So where do you think we go next?"

Monty swallowed her final mouthful of kofta and shrugged, "Honestly I'm not sure. I guess we could start at the street urchins and work our way up asking questions, unless you know anyone in town?"

"Not that could help with this no," Jethro cut in as his cyborg's train of thought rumbled off down unfortunately dead end tracks. "I was thinking I might try some of the bars around the dock area this evening; one of the workers may have seen _Foreplay_ in their travels. A shiny white powerboat is going to stand out around ships, tugs and dumb barges."

Monty nodded slowly, "If you do that, I might try similar at some of the hotels where cruise liner guests get put up. It's a long shot but..."

Her voice trailed off again as the waiter brought them the bill. She doled out the money, picking up again as the young man left.

"...as to what we do this afternoon, I'm not certain. The Aida Beach Resort might have some Hobie Cats we could scoot around the entrance to the port with."

"Hobie 16's and Panamax bulk carriers, now there's a combination I'm sure the Port Authority will just _love_."

"Can you think of anything else to occupy our time with?" replied Monty, pushing her chair back.

Jethro shook his head, "Not really. Not right now. Try me in ten minutes."

Monty gave a thin smile as she exited onto the footpath first, checking quickly both ways before her handler arrived beside her. The pair turned left down the street, but only managed a few paces before Jethro pulled Monty up. Holding her shoulders he bent down slightly so they were face to face and shifted his eyes toward the alleyway between two of the apartment blocks. Running up the side of the building the café was situated in was a fire escape, its lowest platform about a story and a half off the ground with a retracting ladder.

"Do I want to know what you're thinking..." muttered Monty under her breath.

"I'm thinking that these buildings ruined our view from Pompey's Pillar and are probably some of the tallest points in Alexandria," Jethro replied quietly. "Reckon you can get topside and take a look at the harbour?"

At a more normal volume Monty replied brightly, "Actually I think I may need to use the toilet again, wait here for me will you?"

With that she scooted into the café they had just vacated, leaving Jethro standing in front of the alley to share an embarrassed smile and shrug with the surprised waiter.

Retrieving the toilet key from the counter, Monty followed the path she had taken when they first arrived, through the kitchens and into a service corridor. Checking the make sure the toilet was indeed still locked, she made a quick sweep of the area before heading out the rear doors into a loading dock. Five more steps had her around to the side of the building and into the alleyway she'd just recently been standing at the front of. At its far entrance she could see her handler, leaning against a wall seemingly waiting for his companion with the bladder the size of a walnut.

Wedging the café's key securely in her belt, Monty stood directly below the fire escape, then took two bounding steps and launched herself at the opposite side of the alley. As she hit the aged concrete her legs compressed, storing energy and she kicked off the wall, aiming herself at the lower fire escape platform. Flying across the gap she twisted around and extended her arms monkey like and, grabbing the top handrail on the platform, pointed her body to swing between the metal tubes, landing silently on the steel decking. Without wasting any time or movement, Monty flowed quietly up the steep ladders of the fire escape, heading for the roof.

The cyborg emerged onto the flat, gravel rooftop and extracted the binoculars from their case. Stopping short of the roof's edge she crouched down with her elbow braced on her knee with the lenses to her eyes. Lying down would have been preferable, but it wouldn't do to go walking around with her impeccably turned out partner looking like she'd been dragged through the streets behind an ox cart. Jethro had been right however: the rooftop was damn near the highest point in Alexandria and Monty had a clear view of the military side of the Port. Starting at the sea end she began a slow sweep along the docks, looking for the tiny fleck of white that may signal the presence of her quarry.

* * *

><p>Back down on street level, Jethro was watching the world go by and keeping an eye out for anything that might interfere with his cyborg's work.<p>

"Your girlfriend certainly takes her time sahib."

Jethro turned his head to find another waiter from the café standing beside him.

The handler shrugged, "Women eh? But what can you do… and she's my _niece_."

The waiter gave him a grin and conspiratorial wink, "Ah I see, I too keep a few nieces..."

"I don't know about "a few", but that one's worth waiting for; wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more."

At that Egyptian burst out laughing.

* * *

><p>High above them, as the man's laughter drifted up from street level, Monty swore under her breath. Her second pass across the docks had also yielded nothing. Not ready to give up quite so quickly, and unwilling to miss an opportunity she checked her watch. Deciding she had a little time yet and could count on her handler to hold the fort, the cyborg turned her attention to the East Harbour. Much of it was obscured by buildings, but she began a similar sweep across the visible expanse of water.<p>

* * *

><p>At the alley entrance Jethro was enjoying himself, twisting and guiding the conversation to keep the waiter entertained. It was however he thought, about time to end and allow his partner off the roof again. Unfortunately his new friend didn't seem to want to leave.<p>

"And then there is Anai she lives down toward the docks. Lovely girl..."

"She certainly is taking a little long isn't she?" Jethro cut in, making a show of looking at his own timepiece. "Perhaps I should go check on her, just in case."

His companion broke off for a second, digesting the sudden change of subject. Then a wide toothy grin split his face, "I do not recommend it friend. Women can get touchy about these things. Let me tell you about the time I tried to hurry Anai up!"

"Ah, but sometimes it is best to allow them to be annoyed with you, that way they can get it out of their systems for when you'd prefer them happy."

The waiter seemed to consider that.

"Pick your moments friend," continued Jethro. "It is a bit more work, but like all well thought out work, pays off in the end."

"I will think on that, but you remind me, I must be getting back, otherwise I shall not be able to afford to keep my nieces!"

* * *

><p>Now thoroughly annoyed by the lack of results, Monty completed one final sweep across the harbour before stowing the binoculars back in their leather case and slinging it across her body. Carefully she moved to the edge of the roof and peeked over the precipice, just in time the waiter far below slap her handler on the back before moving to a table which was signalling for his attention.<p>

Content the coast was clear, Monty's descent was as smooth and as quiet as the climb preceding it. Reaching the last platform, she checked the alley one more time before swinging herself over the handrail. The petite girl hung from the steelwork for half a second, before releasing her grip and dropping silently the last story and a bit to the ground.

Two minutes later she was back with her handler and ambling off down the street. Her expression however saved Jethro from asking how things went.

"No joy huh?"

"None," grumbled Monty, "I checked the East Harbour as well as the West. Admittedly I could only see half of either but still..."

Sensing that this was probably a good moment to not say much at all, Jethro put an arm around his cyborg and pulled her in close. "Come on, I think we'll head back to the hotel and give the Hobie Cat a miss. I don't know about you, but I need get some washing done before we hit the bars so what say we do that, have a shower and make an early start on the evening."

Monty grumbled something unintelligible, but which was probably agreement and the pair disappeared again into the Alexandrian street crowd.

* * *

><p>Breakfast the next morning wound up being a room service affair as Monty patently wasn't in the mood to deal with her fellow guests. The previous night had proven as seemingly futile as the day and Jethro decided it would be easier to let her be. Despite trying a number of port bars, both of the regular and hookah variety, the handler had encountered no luck locating information on a white powerboat nestled in amongst the military and commercial vessels of the West Harbour. His cyborg, conducting similar enquiries in the slightly higher class establishments frequented by the cruise-liner passengers, hadn't gained anything more than her handler, bar one or two suggestions as to how she should spend the remainder of the night.<p>

Monty stabbed another piece of melon with her fork and sat chewing it thoughtfully. Their fratello was down, but certainly not out. Today however would begin the slightly riskier business of putting out feelers in Alexandria's criminal community. Not that dealing with the less law abiding segment of a city's population worried her in terms of physical safety, nor indeed would it be anything new, but the change in activities did promise to increase the fratello's exposure. Almost two years of clandestine operation outside of Italy's borders had impressed upon the young cyborg exactly the sort of stakes with which she played on a daily basis. Failure on her part could well result not simply in just a reprimand and/or extra work for Section One and the support teams, but also serious repercussions for Italy's foreign relations. Perhaps worse though would be the potential exposure of the cyborg program to a media over which the Italian government held no sway.

The second possible avenue of investigation was riskier, but also likely to yield faster results: simply asking. It wouldn't be difficult to weave a story as to why two Europol investigators didn't know where the thing they were supposed to be investigating was stored. Bureaucracies after all had an incredible ability to leave their employees under informed, and she and her handler had certainly done more with less. However, it would also mean getting into a situation with a much higher risk of someone being able to scrutinize their hastily cobbled together identities, and make it more difficult to escape cleanly if the same someone called their bluff.

Mulling over the options, Monty allowed her head to rest on her hand, staring out the room's open French doors as she started into a Danish pastry. The hotel staff had set up a small table and two chairs in front of the balcony. Hence the Blacker fratello were able to enjoy their breakfast with a cool morning breeze, set against the stunning backdrop of Alexandria's East harbour. Monty's eyes played out across Midan Saad Zaghoul to the Sofitel Cecil Alexandria diagonally across the square, then over the Corniche and across the water to the Yacht Club where the glistening hulls of its members' and visiting boats bobbed at anchor.

Monty's train of thought came to a crashing halt and she stifled an internal groan. Pinching the bridge of her nose she squeezed her eyes shut and put the Danish down. "Skipper, pass me the binoculars... and then my pistol; because if I'm right I about this I may need to shoot myself."

Wordlessly Jethro handed the binoculars over and Monty began a slow sweep of the boats moored on the far side of the harbour. Augmented by the expensive optics, her sharp cyborg vision could make out fine details on the vessels present. Anchors, fenders, running lights, names and home ports on their sterns were all thrown into sharp relief. After one pass, Monty started back, now looking at those closer to shore. Sure enough, tied up at the end of one of the yacht club's service wharfs and guarded by two armed policemen was a white motor yacht with large cabin and unprotected upper deck. _Foreplay_, the Ferretti 510 which had come into the SWA's possession through an operation between the elder Croce and Alboreto fratelli in Pescara; subsequently commandeered by the Blacker fratello to support their first dive team in Monaco... now in the possession of the Egyptian police and the scene for the potential murder of that same dive team.

Monty let out a heavy sigh, "_Foreplay's_ under guard at the Yacht Club. I didn't see her yesterday because there were buildings in the way and we've been concentrating in the western basin because we assumed she'd be at a government facility."

Jethro gave his cyborg a lopsided grin, "Wow. _Embarrassing._"

"You're telling me," replied Monty who, despite her wry expression, was feeling a lot happier than she had five minutes previously.

"In that case I say we take another ten minutes to finish breakfast then set to."

In lieu of an actual reply, Monty shot her handler a sly half smile and tucked into her Danish with renewed vigour.

* * *

><p>Another black and yellow cab dropped the fratello in the street outside Alexandria's Yacht Club of Egypt. Jethro was again in his grey suit and wayfarers. Monty, currently lacking a suit of her own or indeed anything befitting of a staid Europol detective, had instead gone the opposite direction, aiming for flash and glamour. Taking the same Mondrian based outfit she'd worn on their first night in the city, she added the red silk headscarf and sunglasses, along with her light bone trench coat in deference to local tastes, but with its sleeves rolled up to the elbow in deference to local temperatures. With her she also carried the small Leica D-Lux 4 camera the fratello had used for their tourist cover.<p>

Turning left at the club house, Jethro and Monty made for marina's the service berths. As they crossed the hardstand area, a powerful waft of fresh antifoul assaulted their nostrils, mixed with the underlying scent of oil and diesel. Boats, pleasure yachts and fishing vessels alike were supported in the air by spindly networks of scaffold, their undersides and engines stripped bare as workers swarmed over them.

Leaving the noise and stench of the work area behind them, the pair walked out along the short pier at the end of which was moored _Foreplay_. Between the fratello and the Ferretti stood two slightly bored looking Egyptian policemen, MP5 submachine guns hanging lazily from their shoulders. At the unexpected arrival of two people, both pulled themselves up to a more alert stance, fingers now resting lightly on their firearms. One of the two, seemingly the senior, stepped forward with his hand held up in the universal sign to halt.

"Stop there."

The instruction came in heavily accented English; that of someone not used to using the language on a regular basis, and Jethro held up his hands in a placating gesture. By his side Monty carefully stepped on her ingrained cyborg urge to get between the handler and any potential threat. Instead she allowed the ex-spy and confidence trickster to get on with what he did best whilst her eyes, hidden by dark sunglasses, scanned rapidly looking for potential escape routes or options should the situation escalate.

Slipping into his own fluent Egyptian Arabic Jethro replied, "We're with Europol. Our office should have called on ahead."

"We have received no such call. Identification. Now."

Jethro allowed his face to slip into a wry half grin and, keeping his spare hand in view, reached slowly into his jacket's internal pocket and withdrew the small leather wallet that contained his phony Europol identification card. Flipping it open he held it up in the air for the guard to see while Monty beside him extracted her own and presented it for similar appraisal.

Leaving the second policeman to cover him, the senior man stepped forward and ran a quick eye over both IDs.

"Remove your glasses please."

Both fratello members complied, Jethro pinching the bridge of his nose as he did so. "You're sure no one called ahead?"

Momentarily distracted, the guard's attention moved to Jethro's face and the SWA man took the opportunity to close his ID case and stow it back in his jacket before the policeman could go back to inspecting it.

"Not at all. If they did, Headquarters would have let us know."

Jethro sighed, "That's the bureaucracy for you: the field people work their butts off and swelter in the sun but you can't count on the desk jockeys to even pick up a blasted phone."

At that the senior Policeman's moustachioed face twitched into a slight grin, "Ah, sahib you speak a truth eternal."

"That's why it's so great to be in the field: you're always the first in trouble and the last to know anything that may keep you out of it."

The twitch became a wide grin. Motioning to his companion to stand down, the guard moved forward to shake Jethro's hand, "You say you are from Europol? It is nice to know they have unreliable people as well."

"I don't think you can escape them anywhere… Patrick Steed," Jethro motioned to Monty, "and this is my partner, Emily Peel."

The policeman gave Monty a cursory nod, but otherwise paid her little attention, "Rashid El Sadat, but tell me, should Europol not be busy in Monaco?"

Jethro allowed his half grin to return, "As interesting as a casino heist is, an Italian registered yacht turning up with two dead men aboard is also very much within our scope. Besides, only those with enough strings to pull or very brown noses could expect to get sent to the French Riviera."

The Rashid laughed again at this, and motioned the fratello aboard, "You understand I must accompany you: orders."

Jethro shrugged as he climbed over the boat's safety rail, followed by the policeman and finally Monty, "Fine by me. How about your friend?"

"He will remain on guard out here."

Standing in the stern cockpit of the Ferretti, Jethro turned again to the fratello's new escort, "Can you tell me anything about what happened? We were given a brief, but it was a bit on the sketchy side."

This time it was Rashid's turn to shrug, "I am only the guard, not an investigator Mr. Steed, so I can only tell you what I've overheard others talking about. One of the men was killed in the forward cabin with the boathook, messy. The other, the larger, ate his own gun in the bathroom of the same."

Jethro kept his features impassive, but the last piece of information had taken him off guard. He spared a glance for his cyborg; though she also showed no outwards indication of surprise, she had to be digesting this new piece of information with similar interest. Neither Nick nor Shamus had been armed at the start of the Monaco job as far as the Blackers were aware, and the chances of them being able to acquire a gun between leaving England and turning up dead would have been slim.

Jethro decided to press a little, "Do you know what sort of firearm?"

Again Rashid shrugged, "I am afraid not."

"I assume that was taken off the boat, along with whatever else looked interesting…"

"Indeed sahib, they are all currently at my own headquarters with State Public Safety."

Escort in tow, Jethro and Monty started their investigation in the forward cabin. Immediately evident were dark stains on the mattresses of the bunk: blood, permanently soaked into the fabric. The head also had blood dried onto its surfaces, and Monty handed her camera over to Jethro so he could start taking photos, all the while chatting amiably with Rashid. They worked their way back through a smaller side berth and master cabin before ascending the boat's tight gangway into the main social space. That received similar treatment, thoroughly searched stem to stern, before the group emerged again onto the stern deck. There, Jethro directed Rashid up to the upper level.

The two men emerged into the glorious Mediterranean sunlight and moved forward to _Foreplay's_ second set of controls. Jethro plonked himself in the seat and brushed the wheel lightly with his hands.

"You've got to wonder how many heads someone must need to stand on to afford something like this," he said, goosing the inactive throttles forward.

Rashid nodded his assent, "I'm sure some people get there honestly sahib, but certainly no one in the police!"

Jethro laughed, "Not if my pay is anything to go by…"

* * *

><p>Back on <em>Foreplay's<em> main deck and forgotten by their minder, Monty made her way swiftly back down to the forward berth. Working quickly she began her own, more thorough investigation. Starting with the mattress, even her superb cyborg eyes found no puncture marks in it. Lifting the foam rubber up there was also no sign of impact on the ply-wood below, so no misses by the killer. Added to the guard's story of the boathook, she figured there wasn't likely to have been a struggle. A boathook was generally a light and reasonably blunt object, so in order to inflict sufficient trauma to kill a man in such a confined space it would have needed to be used in a stabbing motion. That would have required the killer to get some sort of run-up and been powerful enough to do at least some damage to the bed had they gone wide of their mark. With that in mind, Monty turned her attention to the ceiling and back wall.

_There. _Slight indents in panelling, like those that might be made by a hard plastic handle hitting the thin wood veneer. Taking out her iPhone, Monty used its camera to snap photos of the indents; first from far back to show their location, then close up with her thumb next to them for scale. She moved around, placing her phone almost parallel to the panelling and shot again to keep a record of the depth of the divots.

Content with how, assumedly Shamus as the smaller of the two men had died, Monty turned her attention to the cabin's attached head and bathroom. There was blood on the sink and a smaller amount on the floor below it, suggesting that Nick, sitting on the closed toilet, had slumped in that direction. The rest of the room was however devoid of staining. Seemingly whatever the firearm was, the round hadn't been powerful enough to exit the body. Monty noted there was also no scoring or marking to suggest a hot casing had landed on any of the wooden surfaces, or in fact that anything had impacted them at all.

Monty took another few phone photos before leaving the sleeper berth and again went through the lower deck quickly but thoroughly. The other beds were undisturbed, with no creasing or marking to suggest they'd even been sat on recently. No blood anywhere else either, so assumedly both men had been killed in situ and not elsewhere on the boat then moved to their final resting place.

Back on the main deck she gave the main cabin another truncated once-over, unfortunately the cyborg had to keep things brief lest Jethro's new police friend notice she was no longer with the men-folk. Finding any removable evidence was however unlikely as the Egyptian authorities had already been over the entire hull with a fine-tooth comb.

Though she'd not seen anything amiss on the land side of _Foreplay_, and couldn't re-investigate for fear of being spotted by the other guard, Monty moved to the water-side of the boat. This would be a calculated risk, balancing potential gain against the chance of being spotted from the harbour. Creeping forward along the narrow walkway between cabin and handrail, and careful to keep the boat's superstructure between her and the dock, the cyborg inspected both deck and fittings closely. Just where the boat's hull was at its widest a darkening on the fibreglass caught her eye, which on closer appraisal resolved itself into a pattern of crosses and blocks. Monty twisted her head around to get another view… boot treads; partial marking from boot treads. Brushing a thumb across the iPhone's flick switch to make sure it was still on silent, the girl snapped another a photo then checked above her to make sure no-one was looking down off the top deck. Comfortable she was out of sight she stuck her head over the boat's side to look at the rub-rail a half-foot below her.

Against the normally black trim was a smear of dull red.

The iPhone's digital camera recorded that as well then, reaching down, Monty scratched a bit of the red off with her thumbnail and sniffed it. Faint, faint but unmistakable, the same smell she and her handler had encountered in the hardstand area: antifoul. Now she was almost certain: _Foreplay_ had been boarded, and boarded from something large enough and lightly loaded enough to have been sitting high out of the water.

Content she had gained what information she could and feeling that it was about time to wrap things up, Monty slunk back to _Foreplay's_ stern and hopped over the side onto the pier. Using her very basic grasp on Egyptian Arabic she quietly asked the dock guard how to get to nearest toilet and was directed to small breeze-block building containing a few dirty troughs. Minutes she was back and climbed the ladder to the upper deck where her handler and Rashid were.

"Sorry, had to attend to some lady matters."

Rashid glanced in her direction and Jethro nodded his understanding before they returned to their conversation, again seemingly oblivious to her presence.

* * *

><p>"And you're sure it was antifoul."<p>

Monty nodded, "Ninety-five percent."

"Good enough for me."

It was evening again in Alexandria. After Monty's arrival on the top deck of _Foreplay_, Jethro had kept their police minder talking for another half hour or so, with intent to muddy the waters time wise should both guards decide to compare notes. Now the Blacker fratello had installed itself at an isolated back table in the famous Spitfire expat bar where it could review the day's occurrences. Monty nursed the last dregs of a Negroni cocktail, which the Spitfire had provided with thankfully few questions. Jethro on the other hand had something of his own creation, essentially a Vesper Martini with one shot of gin replaced by sweet vermouth and orange rind rather than lemon as garnish, lending the normally light Vesper a darker, more mature air. This he had, much to his cyborg's annoyance, christened the "Monty".

Jethro inspected the photo on the iPhone's small screen, "That paint could have scraped off the ship which found _Foreplay_ of course."

"I was under the impression that they had called the authorities immediately and not set foot aboard," replied Monty.

"Ah yes, the boot print," Jethro scrolled back to the set of photos of it. "That definitely wasn't Nick or Shamus, both have been around yachts long enough to know better than to wear marking soles."

"It's one of the few clues still left intact on the boat, the Egyptians stripped her pretty bare of anything which wasn't nailed down. All that's left are the physical marks."

"Or what _wasn't_ there," replied Jethro, spinning the phone around to show his cyborg the picture of _Foreplay's_ blood-painted forward head. "You said there were no signs of casings having landed anywhere in here?"

Monty shook her head, "No, so Nick or whoever killed him might have used a single shot, a revolver or at least something which won't throw brass. Of course I guess any ejected casing could have just landed in the sink or been retrieved before it had the chance to singe the decking. Either that or they were killed in a different part of the boat, but that's doubtful as there're no signs of blood outside of that forward cabin."

"Our killer could also have cleaned up," pointed out Jethro, reversing the fratello's usual roles for a minute to play Devil's Advocate.

"They could, and we don't have any way to test for that," Monty paused for a second. "However, if someone was going to off people and move the corpses, the logical thing would be to pitch them over the side and let _Foreplay_ become a ghost ship rather than try to dress the place up as a murder-suicide. Feasibly the Egyptians could have tidied up as well but that wouldn't make much sense from an investigative view…"

"...Thinking about it, I don't believe the paint came from one of the Egyptian military boats either," shrugged Monty, changing tack. "Their draft doesn't vary enough to have antifoul that high out of the water, so it's likely from a merchant ship or at least some commercial vessel."

"It'd still be nice to know from _what_ ship though."

The cyborg didn't reply immediately. Sitting with her head in her hand as she and her partner talked, Monty's eyes had been wandering out the bar's door, playing across passersby as she let her mind mull over the conversation. Now she saw a familiar face in the crowd.

"Hold that thought."

Draining the last of her cocktail, Monty motioned her hander to follow and ducked out into the street.

* * *

><p>Benipe moved confidently and quickly through the street crowds, checking his appearance in a shop window as he passed. By dressing well he'd found people, particularly the wealthy tourists, were less likely to treat him with suspicion and that suited Benipe's purposes nicely. His earnings this night had already been good and he felt the wad of cash in his pocket with a sense of satisfaction.<p>

Turning down a side alley toward one of his own favourite night-time haunts, the young pickpocket's world suddenly spun crazily as he was thrust up against a wall, cheek smashing into the brickwork. Still slightly stunned, Benipe tried to focus on the voice now coming from behind him. Though conversational and cultured, there was iron beneath the man's words, and he was speaking Benipe's native language.

"I know you; you tried to rob me the other day. But that's water under the bridge, now we're going to have a little chat."

"I do not know what you're talking about," started Benipe. "I'm simply a shop…"

His arm was twisted higher up his back and he grunted in pain.

"Oh don't try and talk to me like a fool, a shop keeper here can't afford clothes like that… not without supplementing his income one way or another," chided the unseen speaker. "What I need is information, and you look like the enterprising sort of young urchin who may wish to find it for me, as opposed to his other options, say: landing in the lap of the authorities."

The voice continued, "There's a motor yacht moored at the Yacht Club's service docks under police guard. I want to know about the ship that found it and who's been taking an interest in it. Nod if you understand."

Benipe nodded. It was a jerky, slightly spastic movement, but he offered no more resistance. The pickpocket may not have been well educated, but he wasn't stupid and was certainly smart enough to know that the person in the arm lock did the listening to whatever the person holding the arm had to say.

"Now you're going to keep kissing the wall and count slowly to thirty. Then you may be on your merry way. In three days you will be back here at the same time and facing the same wall. You never know; if you do this right there may even be something in it for you."

The pressure was released from Benipe's arm and he continued to face the brickwork, counting slowly to thirty and continued on to sixty for good measure. When he turned around finally, the alley was well and truly empty.

* * *

><p>"What an endearing young man."<p>

The Blacker fratello had quickly exited the alley which served it as an impromptu ambush point, loosing themselves again in the Alexandrian streets.

Monty gave her handler an absolutely flat look, but chose to ignore the comment, "Thoughts on where to now?"

Jethro walked in silence for a moment, mulling over the question. What they really needed was more guidance, more information. Flicking idly through the photos on his cyborg's phone, he eventually came to rest on the picture of _Foreplay's_ blood soaked head. Something about that was bothering him, something out of place. He gave a mental shrug; it was a fair bet whatever it was would hit him about 3am in the morning... most likely whilst trying to sleep.

"I don't think you're going to like where we need to go next," said Jethro finally, handing Monty her phone back, "but we probably want to go and take a look at Nick and Shamus's personal effects."

Monty grimaced but said nothing, so Jethro continued, "Our friendly minder today said those were being held at the local equivalent of the CID. He's based there too as assistance to the detectives, so fingers crossed he'll have blabbed a bit and when we turn up people won't ask so many questions."

"Either that or they'll have run our IDs, realised we're fakes and will nick us on sight."

Jethro put an arm around his cyborg and gave her shoulder a squeeze, drawing her into his side at the same time. "Have a little faith in the stupidity of humanity."

"I don't need to have faith in fact," growled Monty, seemingly un-placated. "However I also know just how much Murphy loves getting mixed up in these situations."

Jethro sighed, she had a point, "I know, but honestly, we don't have much else to go on. We need more information before deciding where to next, and I can't think of a better way to get the facts first hand."

"Fine."

"I wouldn't mind getting a look at the bodies as well…"

"_No_." Monty's use of the word wasn't a suggestion, but a flat, emphatic stonewalling from the cyborg.

"…well I'm glad you agree because I was _about_ to say it would probably be pushing our luck a mite far. We'll get a gander at what the Egyptians pulled off'f _Foreplay_, and if that doesn't turn up enough to chart us our next move, we'll look to figuring out a way to get into the morgue."

Monty seemed to relax slightly at this. Feeling some of the tightness leave her body, Jethro steered his cyborg around in front of him and put both hands around her skinny shoulders, massaging the synthetic muscle between her shoulder blades as they walked.

"For now though I suggest we get back to the hotel for dinner and a good rest."

Twisting out of her handler's grasp, Monty returned to strolling beside him, "Perhaps for you, I want to finish with Alboreto's intelligence packet before bed tonight. We're still short on information and it may throw _something_ up. Not to mention it'd be worth checking a sailing schedule to make sure three days is still a good timeframe to fit in with the car delivery."

Sighing in knowledge gained from previous experience that this was one he wouldn't win, Jethro answered, "Just be quiet about it then, you may be good to stay up all hours but I _personally_ need sleep."

* * *

><p>Cool air washed over the Blacker fratello as they entered the police building in which Nick and Shamus' personal effects were held. After a visit to Le Metropole's laundry service, the outfit Monty had worn during their fruitless search two days previous had returned, along with what passed for her good humour. The cyborg was much happier with a distinct goal to pursue, even if that goal included seeing her and her handler walking straight into a potential trap.<p>

From the front desk, a bored looking police sergeant eyed Jethro and Monty as they walked toward him across the lobby. Not giving the man time to gather himself up, Jethro started into his fluent Arabic immediately as he reached the desk.

"Patrick Steed and Emily Peel from Europol, investigating the _Foreplay_ boat; we're here to see the personal effects of the two men found onboard."

Caught slightly off guard, the sergeant never the less knew his job, "Identification please."

At that, "Steed" shot his companion a glance and sighed resignedly, "_Again?"_

Without breaking, Jethro turned back to the desk bound man and continued in a louder voice, "This happened to us yesterday as well, our office was _supposed_ to call on ahead."

"Well if they have, then I have not been informed of it," replied the policeman, eyeing the pair suspiciously. "So I will still need to see some identification."

Reaching into his jacket Jethro, for the second time in two days, withdrew his phony ID and handed it over with Monty following suit. The desk sergeant inspected both carefully and started to withdraw Jethro's out of its plastic sleeve, assumedly intending to run it through the magnetic strip reader on the top of his keyboard.

The "Europol" man kept his tone conversational, "I don't know, maybe the call got routed to Interpol in Cairo. Either way, two days of this is just utter bollocks. If you don't believe us, ask Corporal El Sadat, he was there when we caught it yesterday."

At that the sergeant stopped, Jethro's plastic card halfway out of its case and his eyes narrowed, "You know what _sir_? I think I just might. I know Rashid, lets see if he can back up your story."

Replacing Jethro's ID but leaving both wallets up in front of him, the man reached for a desk phone and dialled. Still keeping a suspicious eye on Jethro, he held the receiver to his ear and, after what seemed to the fratello like an eternity, someone apparently picked up on the other end.

"Rashid. It's Amal from the station... Yes, yeah _I_ thought it was my day off as well. Look, I've got two people here claiming to be a Patrick Steed and Emily Peel from Europol. They say they met you yesterday... what do they look like? Well about six foot, brown hair... yes the man. The girl's about five-four, brown hair as well... yes... Ok, thank you."

Amal put down the phone and, snapping the two ID cases shut, handed them back to their respective owners. "Seems you were telling the truth sahib, I am sorry for the inconvenience but you can never be too careful."

Smiling as he replaced the ID wallet Jethro replied, "The world's getting to be a more dangerous place these days..."

"Indeed. Now, you said you were here to see the personal effects of the two men found aboard _Foreplay._ You'll need to fill out and sign these forms," said Amal, handing over a set of stapled together papers for each fratello member, "While you're doing that, I shall organize someone to take you to the evidence locker."

Sitting across from her handler at a small table in the lobby, Monty started filling out the stack of paperwork with pertinent details for her current alias: Emily Alexis Peel, 20 years old, assigned to Europol from the UK, investigating _Foreplay_... occasionally she'd glance over at her handler's paperwork, reading it upside down to check that their stories lined up. Though they'd pre-arranged their cover, it never hurt to be a little over cautious.

Just as they were finishing up, a young policeman, introducing himself in English as Karim, arrived to take the fratello to the evidence locker. Before leaving the lobby however he turned to them, "I need to ask, are either of you armed?"

By way of answer Jethro produced his SIG. Removing the magazine and emptying the chamber, he handed it over for inspection and Monty followed suit with her PPK. Karim inspected both quickly, eyebrows raising slightly as he read the stampings on the side of each slide.

"7.65mm, that is a small round, not very powerful."

This time it was Monty who replied, deadpan, "We're collecting information constable, not fighting a war."

"Fair enough," said their escort, diplomatically but still looking unimpressed. Continuing, he handed the small pistols back, "However, while you may not be fighting a war, I must still ask you to leave your sidearms unloaded whilst in the building."

With that he directed the fratello through the lobby side door and into a passage that ran down the outer wall of the building. That, it seemed, lead to a veritable maze of corridors, elevators and stairs until the party found itself in front of, assumedly, the evidence locker. Karim took a set of keys from his belt and unlocked the solid looking padlock which held the heavy steel door's bolt in place, and swung it slowly open.

"Someone should have already retrieved the items you wish to look over, I shall wait out here."

With that the police constable closed the door, but Monty did not hear the bolt slide across. Looking around she was quick the notice the two CCTV cameras in opposite corners of the room. That at least explained why their escort had not bothered coming in with them. Harsh fluorescent lighting illuminated the area lending it an air of sterility and bringing into stark contrast flaws and imperfections in the floor, walls and second steel door directly across from the first. Seemingly this was not the evidence locker proper, but an inspection room adjacent to it. On a steel bench in the middle of the floor were three trays containing, on closer appraisal, the personal effects of Nick and Shamus. A number of archive boxes were also stacked up against to the far wall, presumably filled with other curiosities from _Foreplay_.

There wasn't much in any of the trays, which did not surprise either fratello member: the whole team had been careful to sterilize themselves before starting the Monaco heist. Pulling on a set of supplied latex gloves so as not to contaminate any evidence, Monty reached into the first tray extracting an almost new leather wallet. Unfastening the Ziploc bag which protected it she made to slip the object into her open palm but in her eagerness fumbled and it slipped from her grasp, bouncing under the table. Cursing silently under her breath, Monty crawled down on all fours to retrieve the errant item, re-emerging a few moments later.

Moving around the table, Jethro leaned down close to his partner in order to study the wallet now in her hands.

"See anything?" he whispered quietly, pitching his voice for his cyborg's sensitive hearing.

Monty gave a small shake of her head, "Not that I could make out."

Jethro nodded and returned his attention to the wallet and its contents. Just because Monty hadn't seen any form of listening device under the table didn't mean that it wasn't there, the check had been more to confirm that someone _was_ spying on them rather than vice-versa.

Taking the wallet from his girl who had apparently now finished with it, Jethro made an inspection of its compartments. There wasn't much there: a UK drivers' license with Shamus's picture on it and a fake name, as well as corresponding credit and debit cards, a PADI open water ticket, powerboat license and a few hundred Euro in notes... all items with which Jethro and Monty had furnished their dive team prior to leaving England.

Another identical plastic bag to the one Monty had opened contained Shamus's fake passport, some coins, again in Euro, and a cheap Casio watch. A larger bag in the bottom of the tray contained bloodied and holed clothes, those which Shamus had been wearing when he was killed. Jethro carefully extracted a shirt from the bag. A series of large, messy holes were spaced unevenly across the back, holes that could easily have been made by something blunt being forced through the fabric.

Leaving Monty to carry out a closer inspection of Shamus's possessions, Jethro moved onto the next tray, containing what had been found on Nick. Extracting the first transparent bag he carefully resisted the urge to move immediately to the last item, alone in its own container on the table. Nick's tray was little different to Shamus's, less frayed holes in the clothes, but with blood staining down the right-hand side, consistent with what they'd seen on the boat. Part of that still seemed a little too neat to the experienced agent, but he shifted the thought to a part of his brain where it could be mulled over while he got on with the job in hand.

Nick's wallet also differed little from Shamus's, though the notes compartment contained a few US hundreds muddled in amongst the Euro. These Jethro extracted and held up to the light, looking over them with a practiced eye before replacing them back from whence they came, seemingly nonplussed by their presence.

Now he moved onto the last tray. Inside in its own sealed bag, cold, clean steel glinting under the harsh fluorescent lights, lay a snub-nosed revolver. Jethro picked the thing up, face impassive, masking his distaste of it. While strapping on his own SIG was akin so slipping into a pair of well worn shoes, the ex-thief and spy would not on a whole have described himself as a "gun" man. Turning the revolver over, Jethro noted the "Colt" stamped into its frame before picking up the second bag in the tray. In it were five rounds of hollowpoint, .38 Special ammunition and one empty brass case. Jethro looked at the loose rounds, then back to the revolver in his other hand and motioned his cyborg over. Handing both to her he said, "What do you reckon."

Monty ran a cursory eye over both packets before replying, "I think it looks awfully clean Skipper; point-blank shots with hollowpoint tend to be a messy business."

Jethro nodded, "That's what I was thinking."

Stepping over to the door, Jethro rapped sharply on the metal, then pulled it slightly open. Karim was still waiting patiently outside.

Jethro his head around the corner and held up the gun in its bag, "Has this been cleaned at all?"

Karim shook his head, "Just enough to do the ballistics test, but otherwise it's exactly as we found it."

"And the test?"

Karim shifted slightly, looking uncomfortable, "I believe the round in the victim's head was found to be from that gun."

Jethro nodded his thanks and shut the door. Turning back to Monty he held the gun up again, "No, apparently it hasn't been cleaned." Much more quietly he added, "The Egyptians don't seem to be feeling that helpful either suddenly. Lets get a look at those other boxes, but I don't think we should dawdle much longer here."

Monty nodded her agreement and took the Colt off her handler, replacing it in its tray. For the next hour Jethro and Monty sifted through the archive boxes of assorted paraphernalia from _Foreplay_. Talking in hushed tones between themselves, they noted items a pair of lower-ranked and inexperienced investigators may have found interesting whilst staying careful not to let slip any actually useful information. Their job was made easier by there not being a whole lot of interest to find. Like the people aboard her, _Foreplay_ had been kept devoid of personal touches. That which had remained aboard consisted of items that could be found on just about any boat across the world: a box of flares which was opened and its contents inspected, tide books which were flicked through, rum and whiskey…

"Crying shame that," noted Jethro, replacing the last bottle.

Having packed up the final box, both fratello members stripped off their gloves, placing them in a pocket for later disposal, then exited the evidence room to meet the still patiently waiting Karim. Locking the door again, the young policeman led the pair back through the maze of a building.

"And that was everything that got pulled off _Foreplay?_" queried Jethro as they walked.

"Yes sahib, everything of note."

"Fair enough."

As they exited back into the public foyer, the desk sergeant beckoned them over.

"Mr. Steed, I followed up your suggestion that perhaps your office had contacted our Interpol branch in Cairo. They however have no record of such a phone call either. Do you have any other ideas?"

Jethro shrugged, "It may well have been someone being forgetful on our end too, I'll chase it up when we get back."

Suddenly he smiled, "Either way, we should be out of your hair now. This was only a preliminary pass, depending on what the brass thinks of our report, someone else may be along eventually. Otherwise, we'll leave the matter in your capable hands."

"Very well, have a safe trip then Mr. Steed."

"Thank you, sergeant."

With that the Blacker fratello walked unhurriedly across the foyer and back out into the heat of the city. Ambling down the street, Jethro made sure to put a good block or so between himself and the police station before speaking.

"I don't think we should pay the Police any more visits."

"Agreed," replied Monty seriously. "That desk sergeant seemed like he was about to start asking awkward questions."

Jethro let his eyes play across his cyborg's face, "Either way, I say we find some lunch and sort over what we've got."

* * *

><p>Jethro and Monty found a tram to get them well and truly out of the police building's vicinity before locating one of Alexandria's many cafés, which offered a table that allowed for some anonymity whilst preventing them looking like two plotters in a back corner. It was also buzzing with locals after a midday meal. That promised the fratello two extra advantages: the drone of humanity to mask their own conversation, and good food, as no bad café was ever this busy.<p>

Having sent the waiter off with their orders and a request for two Turkish coffees, Monty was straight down to business, "I think we start with the obvious: that Colt's a plant."

"Agreed."

"I don't deny it was used in the killing," continued Monty, "but I can't see Nick or Shamus having had time to acquire it between London and Monaco, not unless they'd planned ahead and we didn't dole out details till the very last minute. Between that and the boarding..."

"...plus the few times I met Nick before this, he never struck me as the gun type, it's one of the reasons I liked working with him," put in Jethro. "That said, he never struck me as the back-stabbing type either. Can I borrow your phone?"

Monty handed it over, and her handler scrolled through the photos on it to _Foreplay'_s bloodied head.

"This only really clicked when I asked if the gun had been cleaned, as you said: if it'd been used for a suicide there should have been some splashback on it. Now if Nick had held it in his left hand it should have fallen on the clean part of the head and left another mark. If it had fallen on his right it'd have ended up in a pool of his blood and been much messier."

Jethro handed the phone back, "Shamus's being killed with the boat pole I'm not going to dispute though, poor bugger."

"And it was Nick who did it?" queried Monty.

"Well he'd certainly have the strength," replied Jethro.

"In which case it's highly probable either he or Shamus or both were responsible for trying to sabotage us in Monaco," growled Monty.

"Actually, on that particular count, I'm almost certain it was Nick."

Monty took a sip of her coffee then, resting her elbows on the table, eyed her handler over the cup's rim, one eyebrow cocked urging him to explain.

"Two reasons, but the first I'll leave for when we're back at the hotel. As to the second: that Egyptian guard said the rozzers didn't pull anything beyond what was in that room off'f _Foreplay_… and we both know there should've been a substantial quantity of explosive aboard to blast into the Fairmont's vault. So either the Egyptians are lying or some third party removed them..."

Monty cut in, "Nick and/or Shamus could have dumped them when they saw they were going to be boarded."

"Feasibly they could have," said Jethro, "but knowing Nick and Shamus I think they're both the sorts to try and bluff their way out of that sort of situation rather than loose a large haul of Semtex. Perhaps more to the point though: I think we both agree they were boarded by a civilian vessel, which would give them little reason to expect to be searched."

Jethro took another sip of his coffee, "On the explosives front though, the other reason I'm inclined to run with the 'Nick as saboteur' theory is the flares."

Monty nodded, "I did notice our dummy flare was gone."

At this moment the waiter returned with the fratello's meals and they pulled the conversation up short. Both partners had again gone with local fare and for a few more minutes silence reigned as they made short work of what was placed in front of them.

Using a piece of bread to mop up her Bamya, Monty started again, "You were saying about our flare..."

Still chewing, Jethro pointed to his cheek, so the cyborg was forced to wait patiently till he had finished, "Yes, the flare with Nick and Shamus's detonators in..."

Washing down that last mouthful with the table water, the handler continued, "...that it was gone says to me that our demolition gear was removed by someone who knew where everything was, ie. one of the dive team."

"But that only narrows our saboteur down to someone on the boat, not just to Nick," pointed out Monty. "I'm going to guess whoever boarded _Foreplay_ was probably working with or employing our saboteur and gave them a double cross."

"That, Ms. Peel, is highly probable," grinned Jethro, "but there _is_ a part two, because Nick had US currency in his wallet."

"Which, _Mister_ Steed, merely proves he has poor taste in nations," replied Monty, deadpan.

"There's a bit more to it than that. As I said, I'll explain the rest back at the hotel," Jethro looked around, "and speaking of which, the lunch crowd's emptying out. I say we get a rattle on as well."

Monty narrowed her eyes, "You'd best not just be winding me up."

"Now would I do that?"

"Yes."

* * *

><p>Settling the bill, Monty and Jethro took another meandering stroll through Alexandria's streets before dropping in at the Bibliotheca, content to gawp for a time in the role of tourist. From there they took the same route along the Corniche they had on their first night in the city, enjoying the harbour view, on the way to Le Metropole.<p>

Safely ensconced in their room, Monty closed the doors and gauze curtains, then turned on the air conditioning to help mask any small discernable amount of speech filtering out of the room. They were rudimentary measures at best, but Monty had long ago learned to work with what she had available, which right now was translucent curtains and a noisy air conditioning unit.

If not content, then at least satisfied she had done what she could, Monty turned to her handler who had his jacket and tie off and was lying on their bed.

"Out with it."

Without getting up, Jethro dug in his pocket and extracted a neatly folded US hundred dollar bill.

"Here," he said, holding the slip of paper out to his cyborg. "That came out of Nick's wallet."

Monty took it and ran a cursory eye over both sides before fixing her handler with another "please explain" look. She didn't bother asking just how Jethro had removed the currency without being spotted; her handler had been playing street cons for laughs since his high school years and sleight of hand was one of the must-have skills. Besides, as Jethro said: he'd only ever been caught properly once, a mistake which had landed him in Her Majesty's Secret Service... hardly, in his opinion, something to complain about.

"Take a really close look at it," reiterated Jethro.

This time, Monty examined the note in the sort of minute detail only a cyborg could, then held the hundred up to the light coming from behind the curtains, studying the watermark.

"It's a forgery."

Jethro nodded, "So were the others, and I don't think it's been out of the press more than a fortnight."

"Hence why Nick couldn't have picked it up between London and Monaco..."

"Exactly. _Somebody_ has paid him with that," confirmed Jethro. "It's a good forgery too, watermark's a bit blurry, but the paper's right and the ink's hue and viscosity are nigh on perfect. Now smell it."

Monty raised the fake bill to her nose and took a sniff. An acidic smell hit her nostrils, mixed in with the warmer scent of paper.

"That ink is fresh but isn't the correct one for US currency," continued Jethro. "It's also slightly acidic, so while it seems nice now, in a year or so the paper will start to yellow and deteriorate... not that it matters, whoever forged it will have had plenty of time to use or launder whatever they've printed by then."

Sitting up and retrieving the bill from his cyborg, Jethro swung his feet off the bed and padded towards the bathroom. "Bring the matches, there's one last thing I want to check now you've had a chance to look this over."

Taking the little pack of matches provided by the hotel, Monty followed her handler. Holding the note by one end over the bathroom sink, Jethro struck a match and touched it to the bottom corner of the fake hundred. The flame flared yellow for a second as the paper caught then settled into a slightly sputtering red-purple. Quickly he blew it out and doused the match in the sink.

"Thought so," said the handler looking satisfied. "_This_, is an Turkish ink compound, from Istanbul to be precise."

Monty cocked an eyebrow as the pair filed back into the main room and Jethro flopped back down on the bed. "Dare I ask…"

The handler seemed to consider this for a second, "Remember I said I was in Turkey on a forgery job just before I met you?"

Sitting down next to her handler on the bed, Monty nodded.

"Well, we were doing Franklins… US hundreds. A friend had come into acquisition of a press which could do the work, another had created routes by which to dispose of the forged currency. I was brought in to make up the plates and source materials. You know; paper stock, ink and so on."

"This," he held up the note, "is the same ink compound we used back then. Its colour and viscosity are near-as-makes-no-difference _exactly_ the same as what the US mint uses, so it goes down at the correct tint and thickness with relatively little difficulty. The aging issue really didn't worry us; all we wanted was quick, single-use cash."

"I take it there was a good reason for forging US currency and not, say, Euro or Pounds Stirling," put in Monty.

"There was, and still is," replied Jethro, rolling up on his side to look at his partner. "The US is _very_ paranoid about its currency, and rightly so too: drop the details into the wrong hands and someone could absolutely destroy their buying power simply by printing the stuff. Practical upshot is that there's always some security measures that the Yanks don't share with the rest of the world, including Europe..."

"...so if you forge US currency in Europe, it's harder for anyone to spot a fake... and vice versa for Euro and Pounds I assume," finished Monty.

"Precisely."

That brought a small smile to Monty's lips, "Well at least that's something we can follow up, even if our pickpocket comes back with empty hands. It's been awhile since we did Turkey."

Jethro rolled again onto his back and lay looking up at the ceiling, "Turkey's definitely an option, but lets see what our pickpocket has to say first. Besides, we've still got to wait on the car so what's that, two, three days at least?"

"Let me check."

Retrieving her computer, Monty quickly brought up the freight line's sailing schedule, searching for the container ship carrying the fratello's Audi.

"Three days."

"Then until that time I say we lay low and work up our tourist credentials," replied her handler.

With little else to add to the current conversation, Monty flicked her screen over to the intelligence packet she'd not yet quite finished summarizing and left her handler to his own thoughts. It was a system the pair had fallen into quite by accident: as they spent much of their time on the road, travelling from one place to another, it had simply been logical for Monty to handle the fratello's day-to-day running and administration while her handler filled chauffeur duties.

Giving her notes a quick edit, Monty dumped the whole lot into a pdf and attached it to the start of the intelligence packet proper. Then she retrieved her handler's iPhone and started to transfer the combined file across for his perusal.

As the cyborg was unplugging the phone, Jethro spoke up.

"What I'm not sure on," he said, apparently starting halfway through an existing thought, "is why Nick only pulled himself and Shamus out of action. Surely there had to be more certain ways to foil us in Monaco."

Recognizing the signs of her handler looking for a chance to compare his own theories against someone else's, Monty waited a few seconds before giving him a verbal prod. "To be fair, if Alboreto and Pagani hadn't been able to take a holiday on short notice we _would_ have been sunk. Nick couldn't have known we had somewhere other than Europe's criminal community to draw resources from. Even then, Agency personnel weren't supposed to be on our reinforcements list, for that I think we may well have landed in Croce's black books."

If Jethro caught the mild jab at the SWA's field commander he didn't respond to it, instead continuing, "But simply leaving a tip with the authorities to take the whole team out of action would have been much more likely to shut us down."

Monty dropped her handler's phone on his chest and closed the top of her computer before twisting herself around on the bed to face him.

"I think it'd be fair to say that Nick, or whoever he was working for, probably wanted as little to do with the law-enforcement types as we did," she began. "While that doesn't explain away an anonymous tip, a tip also wouldn't have gotten him clear before the rozzers moved in. Perhaps more to the point though, getting "thrown out" meant that, if we did pull through, he'd have a viable alibi to work in with us again."

That last caused Jethro's forehead to crease in a frown, "You think, well... _whoever_, may be taking an interest in us beyond trying to shut Monaco down?"

Monty shrugged, "Don't know, but a touch of "worst case" paranoia never hurt."

Jethro grimaced, the idea that someone might be taking a deeper interest in him and his cyborg was one he did not like the sound of in the slightest. Monty meanwhile had opened up her Macbook Pro again and, starting a fresh document, began noting out the fratello's next regular report for Rome. Comfortable that she was capable of putting in the appropriate bits of information, leaving out that which should be left out and spinning what needed spinning, Jethro picked up his iPhone and started through her intelligence summary. She'd organized the information by its relevance to their own fratello, beginning at unconfirmed reports of increased contraband traffic through Northern Italian ports and working down to more localized, internal Italian affairs. Clicking the hyperlink Monty had provided to what she deemed the item of greatest interest, Jethro started reading the slightly more in depth analysis by Public Safety and Section 2's own intelligence team. The text was only a few pages long, relatively short, and Jethro couldn't help but remember a comment that had been made during his time in the SIS: that the Italians were excellent spies, but only in their own backyard. Making a mental note to bump tracing seaborne arms routes into Italy up the fratello's seemingly ever growing "things to do" list, Jethro flicked back up to the top of Monty's pdf to find the next section she'd decided was worth reading.

* * *

><p>Another forty-eight hours found the Blacker fratello back in the Spitfire bar.<p>

The previous morning had been spent in their hotel room, dealing with the bureaucratic detritus of what would once have been called "paperwork", but was now for the travelling fratello mostly the realm of eForms. The practical upshot was that it had been past midday by the time the pair had attached Jethro's electronic signature to the last document and dropped a zipped and encrypted package into one of the online "dead letterboxes", from which the SWA would retrieve it. The rest of the day had been spent in Alexandria's great library, during which time Monty had made use of one of the public computers. From that she left an anonymous comment on a well frequented watch blog, which would alert the SWA that there was a file to be collected. Some low-level analyst would get the job next day of trawling through the comments on new posts across a number of blogs and forums to find the specific set of words and phrases Monty had used to pass on her message... the chalk mark on a wall for the digital age.

Like the library, the Spitfire bar offered the advantage of being frequented by foreigners. Postcards and stickers left by patrons on its walls reflected the cauldron of nationalities present on its floor. Two extra Europeans sat at a corner table did not look out of place.

Monty and Jethro let the time tick by, faces close together and talking softly between themselves, until the Spitfire's patrons started to join the night-time dance of bar hopping. Some left for other harbours whilst more arrived to fill their place. Fitting in with the now more transient crowd, the fratello moved themselves out into the street.

Holding Monty close beside him, Jethro headed the opposite direction to the one they had previously taken when tailing their pickpocket. Stopping in front of a darkened alley, the handler turned Monty to face him and bent down, pulling his cyborg into a tight embrace. Placing his head next to hers he made as if too whisper nothings in her ear, causing the girl to give an indulgent smile as he placed a light kiss on her cheek before drawing back to place another on her lips.

Still nose to nose, Jethro whispered, "See anything?"

Monty, who had made thorough use of the opportunity her handler had created to check the area behind him replied flatly, "No, no-one interested in us at least... and try part two with no warning again and you'll be doing _all_ the paperwork yourself next month."

Jethro cracked a small smile at the last comment, before pulling back and hustling the girl with him into the darkened alley. Safely out of sight of the street, Monty stripped off her bone coloured trench coat to reveal the charcoal turtle-neck skivvy she'd worn during their escape from the port and a matching pair of three-quarter length riding pants. Jethro took the trench from her and gave his cyborg's shoulder a final, heartfelt squeeze before she bounded off into the night. Now on his own, the handler worked his way through the maze of back alleys to the next main street and, settling into a steady pace in order to give Monty time to get into position, strolled back in the direction of his next appointment.

A shop closer to his destination presented the chance to kill a little time and Jethro paid a couple of pounds for a bottle of water. He was just returning outside as his phone vibrated. Extracting it from his pocket he read the simple, one word text message: "night".

Stowing the phone again, Jethro checked the street left and right before skipping nimbly across it, through the traffic and into another alleyway. He navigated his way across the loosely styled city block, moving quickly until he was almost at the next main street where he slackened back to a casual saunter. Jethro rounded the next corner to find a man standing face to the wall with his eyes shut.

_Guess he actually was bright enough to follow instructions._

Taking up a position just out of reach behind the figure, Jethro kept his Egyptian Arabic low and level, "Good evening Mister Pickpocket."

Benipe the pickpocket didn't say anything but continued to stare at the wall so Jethro continued, "I believe you had some information for me."

At this, Benipe swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing, then started to speak, "Yes sir, I have a friend who knows a friend who works at the Yacht Club. He said that, apart from the police, two other groups have been to see your boat. The most recent were a man and a woman from Europol. The man was about six feet tall, with brown hair. The woman he said looked almost like a girl, much shorter than the man and very slim. She was wearing a head scarf though so he didn't get a look at her face."

Benipe swallowed again then continued, "The other was a woman claiming to be from Scotland Yard: tall, with long black hair in a pony tail. My friend's friend said she walked right past where he was working and that she had very blue eyes and nice... a nice figure..."

The pickpocket's voice trailed off, and Jethro gave a cough as indication he should continue.

"As to the ship that found your boat... I tried to find what I could, but I could only get a name: the _Ghazala_ out of Algeria..."

Benipe's voice trailed off again. Figuring he had all the information he was going to, Jethro slipped a €500 note out of his wallet and tucked it into the back of Benipe's shirt before quietly disappearing back up the alley, leaving the pickpocket facing the wall.

He was just about at the other end of the block when there was a swish of rushing air and small sound of someone landing quietly beside him. Without blinking he shook out the trench coat draped over his arm and held it out to his charge who was dusting herself off after a successful run across the rooftops. Monty slipped the coat on, doing the belt up loosely to fasten it closed before taking a sip from the water bottle now proffered by her handler.

Falling into step as they started moving again, Monty asked, "So?"

"So I think we'll talk about it back at the hotel," replied Jethro. "Your end?"

"Our pickpocket arrived alone. I didn't see anyone on the roofs or watching from the surrounding buildings either."

Jethro nodded, "I didn't expect him to be that sophisticated, but better safe than sorry."

"And you just left him facing the wall?"

"He'll figure it out eventually."

* * *

><p>Back in their room at Le Metropole, Jethro divulged the little information that Benipe had provided.<p>

"First up, we're not the only people taking an interest in _Foreplay_..."

"No real surprises there," put in Monty flatly.

"Not precisely no. The other party is a woman claiming to be from Scotland Yard. The exact description was 'tall, long black hair in a pony tail, blue eyes and well built'."

Monty's eyes narrowed, "Sounds suspiciously like that 'Christmas' woman."

Jethro nodded, remembering the punter who had played opposite him at the Fairmont Monaco's baccarat table. "It does, and I'm willing to err on the side of paranoia and say for now that it _is_. That's the second time she's been in the same area as us that we know of."

"Moscow Rules then Skipper: Once is an accident; twice is a coincidence..."

"...three times," finished Jethro, "is an enemy action... and I'd really prefer we not get to that third time."

"As to the ship," he continued, "all our pickpocket could get was a name: _Ghazala,_ out of Algeria."

"That I can work with," stated Monty, retrieving her computer and flipping the screen up. "Give me a few hours; I should be able to dredge up her sailing schedule and whether she was full or empty whilst in the area."

Jethro nodded again, "I was hoping you'd say that. Either way, I don't think there's a whole lot more we can learn here. Between that, 'Mary Christmas' showing up again and the police getting suspicious, I think it may do us well to take leave of Alexandria... when did you say the car was arriving?"

"The ship it's on gets in sometime late tomorrow morning," replied Monty immediately. "So I imagine it'll be offloaded and ready to pick up some time that evening."

"Then lets get ourselves out tomorrow night and head for Istanbul. That seems to be the next best bet."

Monty stifled a yawn, "Agreed, but for the immediate future I motion we get some food and coffee up here. Something tells me it's going to be a long night."

* * *

><p>Monty's prediction of a few hours to acquire <em>Ghazala's<em> schedule turned out to be slightly on the optimistic side, and it was the small hours of the morning before she had received a reply from the shipping company's agent. In the interim the cyborg took the opportunity to strip, clean and oil her PPK, and also switch magazines in order relieve the spring in the one she had been carrying. Replacing the firearm in its holster, Monty turned to Jethro, who was lying on the bed watching her work.

"Do we have a way to leave the country?"

Jethro rolled off their bed, and crossed the floor to join his cyborg in the room's small sitting area. "Overland. Needing to take our curtain call a little sooner than expected has put paid to getting passports sorted here. That means a covert exit, and since we raised something a ruckus at the port on entry, overland looks like the next best option."

Monty paused a second whilst she digested this. It wasn't far off what she'd expected to hear and it certainly wouldn't be the first time they'd left a foreign country in a hurry. More to play Devil's Advocate than anything however she replied, "You could just blag us onto the ferry here and save the border crossing."

"I did consider that," replied Jethro, "but it's something like a forty-eight hour boat ride. That's longer than I'm comfortable relying on a blag we've nothing to back up, exciting certainly, but not high on the sensibility stakes."

He took a second to arrange his next thought before continuing, "I think overland into Libya, we've still got plenty of profit from Monaco if we need to bribe our way across, or we can find a route without a border post. Libya's authorities are less efficient and significantly more genially corruptible than Egypt's, so we should be able to get passports sorted there without too much difficulty. Then we can take another tramper, or even a regular container ship if it happens to be going the right direction, to Turkey."

"Or feasibly we could just see if there's a handy passenger service," stated Monty.

Jethro gave her a half grin, "Spoil sport."

"Rolling off a car-ferry is far less likely to raise eyebrows than being unloaded from another ship, not to mention it'd chalk up an extra genuine emigration stamp for our passports. Let me have a look and see what's available, I'll tell you how we get on at breakfast."

Monty's handler raised an eyebrow, "Meaning?"

"Meaning you should be making tracks for bed. It's a long drive to Libya tomorrow and I'd prefer you didn't run us off the road through lack of sleep."

"Yes _dear_."

Unfortunately for Monty, her computer chose that moment to give a chime, signalling a new email had arrived. Clicking into one of the online email accounts used in the fratello's dealings with third parties, the cyborg pulled up the attached pdf of _Gahzala's_ sailing schedule. Flicking quickly down through the columns Monty found the approximate dates around when the ship would have found the drifting _Foreplay_.

"Full," she stated as Jethro circled around to look at the screen over her shoulder, "_Gahzala_ was on her way to the Suez Canal with a full load of LNG from Bethouia. Previous to that it looks like she was docked for about a month, perhaps with plant issues."

"So she couldn't have been near _Foreplay_ when the latter was boarded. That makes sense, no-one would risk sending a gas ship out with a fault."

Jethro sighed, "Either way that cuts it: there's no point staying in Alex. First chance we get, we're leaving."

* * *

><p>The container handling section of the Port of Alexandria was mercifully separated from the General Cargo area via which Jethro and Monty had made their entrance into Egypt. Collection of their consignment from the freight forwarders was a reasonably straight forward, if lengthy, exercise in form filling and signing under the appropriate false identity... repeatedly. Jethro had instructed his contact in Britain to ship under the fratello's "Archer" identity, as the emergency spare the fratello had taken to Monaco and now the only one they had available not technically in a different country. The lack of options was another reason to get to Istanbul in a hurry as that city also housed one of their safe boxes, which could be raided for fresh aliases to rest those used up to now.<p>

Paperwork complete, and donning orange high visibility vests, one of the freight forwarder's agents then lead the pair down the darkened, towering, geometric canyons formed by the tall stacks of shipping containers stored in the company's hardstand area. Eventually they came to a series of containers separated out from the stacks, apparently awaiting pickup by their respective owners. Jethro and Monty were directed to a smaller, twenty foot intermodal unit on the far end, given a key and abandoned with instructions to leave it and their loaner vests in the container.

The fratello took the time to give the container a walk around, checking for any signs of forced entry. The dull, faded and age patinaed red paint would be difficult to mask any attempts at cutting and repair against. Completing their circuit the fratello came again to the set of doors built into one end of the twenty foot box. Like the rest of the metalwork, they were faded red, however the locking bolts were clean and freshly greased.

As the last lock separated, Monty lifted the bolts free then swung the heavy metal doors open, splitting the sun and sea faded white "Universal Export" stencilled across them in two. A small smile coursed her features; securely strapped down in the same position it had left England was the vehicle which, for better or for worse, was the closest thing she'd known to a permanent home since waking up at the SWA. Walking into the container with her handler, the cyborg started another walk around, checking for damage, bugs or other malefactions which may have befallen the dark grey Audi A4 Allroad since it was last in the fratello's hands. Finding nothing, Jethro retrieved the car's spare key-fob from where it had been hidden by his contact under the car's front bumper and handed it to Monty for storage. Using the emergency physical key on his own fob rather than the remote to unlock the driver's door, Jethro popped the bonnet and gave the engine bay a similar once over to the rest of the car. Satisfied his vehicle wasn't going to blow up the minute the ignition was pressed, the handler checked the car's fluids and set about reconnecting the starter battery. With her boss otherwise occupied, Monty made a second check circuit, releasing the car's restraints as she did so and rolling the ratchet straps up to be left in the container for their owners.

As his cyborg finished, Jethro dropped the bonnet again and, sitting himself in his driver's seat, slipped the fob into the its slot in the dashboard and gingerly pressed the start button. The high whine of a starter motor was quickly replaced by a deep mechanical thrum, settling back to an almost silent idle as the Audi's diesel V6 came to life with Teutonic efficiency, seemingly unfazed by its weeks spent in storage.

Jethro selected drive, then edged the estate car out of its container so as not to asphyxiate himself and his charge. Leaving the engine idling he released the boot and moved around to the back of the vehicle. A large suitcase which had shifted during the car's sea voyage got put back in place before the handler removed one of the interior trim panels. Intended by the car's designers to allow access to things like tail-lights, it now also stored a second, deep-cycle battery which Jethro set about reconnecting. A crackle of electricity, followed by a bout of swearing, made Monty look up from where she was setting the fratello's two duffle bags on the back seat.

Eyeing her handler across the seatback she deadpanned, "Are you ok."

"Is good," grumbled Jethro, shaking his right arm. "It just bit me."

Taking more care to check the isolator was off before getting back to work, Jethro quickly had the battery reconnected and panel locked down in time to allow Monty access into the boot with their other suitcase which was stowed beside its brethren.

That left the fratello with one more job to do. Folding one of the back seats forward, Jethro lifted the carpet slightly and extracted a flat, satin wrapped package. Ten minutes later, a dark grey Audi rolled out of the port gates... wearing Egyptian number plates and registration.

The Audi didn't go far before pulling into a service station. Though more intended for freight trucks than private vehicles, it allowed Jethro to check tyre pressures and brim the Allroad's main and aftermarket reserve tanks. The service station shop also gave Monty the opportunity to purchase the necessities of a long road journey: bottled water, snacks, Red Bull, all of which was placed behind Jethro where she could easily reach it from the passenger seat. With the fuel included, her purchases saw the fratello's supply of local money again running low, but now it wouldn't matter so much. They were _leaving_.

With his cyborg once more safely ensconced in her passenger seat, Jethro pulled out of the service station and turned west, heading for the Libyan border along the International Coastal Road. Soon they had left Alexandria's city limits, along with the fertile Nile Delta, and dry desert lapped at the edges of the thin string of tarmac tracking arrow straight just inland of the Mediterranean Sea. At Sidi Barriani the fratello stopped to top off the car's tanks again. With a full fuel load, the Blacker Audi had a theoretical range of over 1600km. However, one of the first lessons of long-distance, remote area driving Jethro had learned was that you tanked off when you could, not when you had to, and the tractless desert certainly wasn't the place to be gambling on theoreticals.

From Sidi Barriani the Allroad was pointed inland, its driver looking to put some distance between the fratello and Egypt's slightly more populace coast. Settling into a comfortable high-speed cruise, Jethro allowed himself to relax into the car's rhythm, its extra suspension travel and plump, rally-bred Pirellis helping soak up the aged tarmac's imperfections, its interior suffused in the soft glow of dashboard instruments. Beside him, Monty reached out to let her arm brush briefly against his where it lay on the centre console. Though she'd never admit it to anyone, these were the moments she looked forward to and treasured: just her, her handler and the open road; their car a tiny, isolated speck of light against an infinite night; travelling.

The Blackers kept with the road as it curved toward the border again, and continued until the tarmac turned sharply south. Pulling off onto the shoulder, Jethro killed the car's lights and engine. Now that they were away from the coast, the temperature had dropped dramatically, and Monty found her breath condensing in the air as she stepped out of the estate's heated interior. Opening the back door she retrieved her trench coat from the seat as an extra layer of protection against the chill desert, along with the binoculars.

The combination of bright, almost full moon and clear desert night meant it took little time for even Jethro's unaugmented eyes to adjust to the cool, silvery moonlight which picked out the featureless landscape in a ghostly monochrome.

"Bombers' moon tonight," he commented, breathing out another cloud of fog.

Monty nodded, "That's good for us. Give me a lift up."

Kneeling down, Jethro helped Monty position herself on his shoulders and, with a small grunt of effort, stood up. From her perch, the cyborg started a slow, 360 degree sweep of their surroundings. First revolution complete, Monty lifted the binoculars to her eyes for the second rotation, this time searching farther out, extra detail leaping at her as the large optic lenses sucked in all the light available to them. At the end of the second rotation however she clambered down off her handler and shook her head.

"I can't see anyone out there."

"Good, then lets get rolling before that changes."

Monty's trench and binoculars were returned to the back seat and the fratello retook their positions. Starting the car again, Jethro left the lights off and crept westward into the desert: away from the road, away from Egypt and into the relative safety of Libya.

**To be continued...**


	2. CH02 With A Fez On

**AND THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction by Alfisti, based on works by Yu Aida._

* * *

><p><strong>CH02|With A Fez On<strong>

Pieri Lorenzo, chief of Italy's Social Welfare Agency, looked up at the soft tap on his office door. Taking in the room he noted, with some chagrin, that what had once been a sunny Saturday morning was now replaced by the dark of night. Apparently the best laid plans of mice and men really were always doomed to failure… even if those plans were as simple as coming to work for just a few hours on the weekend.

"Enter."

The door opened silently to admit the Chief's steward; dressed impeccably, if somewhat incongruously, in a maid's uniform and carrying a silver tray.

"Telegram for you sir."

Lorenzo raised his eyebrows questioningly at the archaic form of communication, but didn't say anything yet. Instead he leaned back in his chair, pushing his glasses up slightly to rub at suddenly tired eyes.

"What time is it?" He asked, not bothering to look at his watch.

"Almost seven in the evening sir; I have taken the liberty of informing Signor Alboreto that you will be late or not back at all tonight. I have also prepared your on-campus quarters."

"And how long have _you_ been here."

"I sir, am _always _here."

By now the steward had reached his desk and placed the tray down. On it were plunger of fresh coffee, a small plate of neatly arranged cheeses, cold meats, fruit… and a yellow envelope, addressed to one of the Agency's post office boxes in precise typewriter script.

"I have prepared something light, but if you _do_ intend to remain later I would suggest a more substantial meal."

Lorenzo looked from the girl, to the papers on his desk and then to his computer, where another email had just arrived. Seemingly he wasn't the only one working late on the weekend.

"Thank you, Tea. I think that may be appropriate."

"Very good sir, I shall inform the kitchen."

With that she made a slight bow and withdrew, leaving Lorenzo again to his empty, darkened office.

Now able to indulge his curiosity, the Chief picked up his physical mail, slitting it open and withdrawing the single piece of grey-brown card inside. Picked out in the same all-capitals type as the front of the envelope it read:

_SIR -(STOP)- COMPLETE LIGHTHOUSE EXIT STAGE LEFT -(STOP)- TRANSITING CONSTANTINE VIA THREE MINISTERS -(STOP)- HOPE YOU LIKE PRESENT SENT WITH A -(STOP)- PLEASE INFORM IF USEFUL -(STOP)- BEST REGARDS_

PYTHON

Quirking a thin smile at the extra theatre "Python" had apparently wanted to include in their transmittal, Lorenzo opened up a new message on his computer to let Ferro know she had mail to collect.

* * *

><p>"Mr. Archer? I wondering what you and lady would like for <em>kahvaltı<em>?"

Jethro stopped, one foot on the set of worn wooden stairs and turned to face his addressor; a weather beaten, yet still handsome woman in her early fifties.

"Honestly luv I've not managed to even look at the menu yet," he replied, "What's good?"

"Our _menemen_ is particularly good," said the woman, describing a Turkish traditional breakfast foodstuff, "but we used to tourists as well."

Jethro thought for a second, "Can you give us five minutes? Let me put these down..." he lifted the bags he was carrying slightly "...check with her upstairs and I'll get back to you."

"Of course, I be in kitchen."

Facing forward again, Jethro continued climbing to the second level of the small bed and breakfast he and Monty had chosen to accommodate themselves. It was run by an aging Turkish couple, the last in a long line to inhabit the farm property, who had welcomed their guests with relaxed and genuine hospitality.

Rustic in the extreme and located in the quiet, secluded countryside, it seemed an appropriate place to rest before entering Istanbul proper.

The fratello's journey from Alexandria had been relatively smooth; their night time border crossing into Libya, and subsequent drive north seeing them roll into the coastal city of Tobruk about mid-morning. Sorting out passports had been a reasonably simple task of finding an appropriately entrepreneurial emigration official, who was happy to supply the correct stamps for a small fee. Back to travelling pseudo-legally, Monty had then been able to arrange tickets to Turkey on the regular Tripoli-Lebanon-Tasucu ferry over the internet.

Tapping quietly on the door to let his cyborg know who it was, Jethro let himself in. On their bed, Monty sat cross-legged with an assortment of cards, passports and a few thick wads of €500 notes arrayed around her. At that moment however, the cyborg had one forearm slipped under the bed covers and her attention solely on the new arrival. Rest assured of who was joining her she slowly removed her hand, leaving the concealed PPK in place, while Jethro placed their bags down.

"Asya wants to know what we'd like for breakfast," started Jethro, referring to the B&B's matriarch by name.

Monty had turned back to what she was doing and replied without looking up, "Don't know."

"Turkish traditional it is then, back in a tick... I've got the key."

Hearing the door click shut again behind her handler, the girl picked up an American Express card, quickly checked the name on it and added it to a rapidly filling black leather card folio. A Maestro card followed it, along with two French passports, causing Monty to pull a face. One by one, a majority of the various items in front of her were slotted into the folio, leaving a meagre selection still on the bed. Giving a small sigh, the cyborg picked up the red-trimmed case and, using her weight to hold it shut, sealed the zipper. She was just about to slip it back into her suitcase when Jethro re-entered the room.

Stepping over to his cyborg he plucked the folio from her grasp, frowning at how heavy it was, "This is everyone we've used since London? Who's left?"

"The Archers and that's about it," replied Monty resignedly. "After them we're back to being ourselves."

Jethro gave a wry snort, "Guess we might prioritize retrieving some fresh aliases once we hit Istanbul."

Tapping the wads of Euro also laid out on the bed the handler continued, "_This_ also needs dealing with. We could make a trip through Sharjah at some point; but if there's somewhere decently reliable in-country, then getting it clean sooner rather than later would be preferable."

Monty wrinkled her nose slightly at the last suggestion. The Emirate of Sharjah, enviously watching the successes of nearby Dubai and Abu Dhabi, had decided it wanted its share of foreign coin. However, as one of the smaller members of the United Arab Emirates and with a population of under a million, it hadn't had the funds to plough into towering civil monstrosities. The answer had been elegantly simple: a single-runway airfield in the middle of the desert and minimal regulation. When the Soviet Union had folded in on itself, unpaid and unemployed former Red Air Force pilots, with their Ilyushins and Antonovs of dubious origin, had flocked there. The result had been a major hub for cargos that needed moving with discretion; and a banking system wherein accounts could be opened, have massive amounts of money transferred in, immediately transferred out again and closed with no questions asked.

"I'll keep an eye out; if we can avoid a side trip of sand and odorous Russians then so much the better."

Jethro returned the card folio to his cyborg so she could pack it away and, moving to the two bags he'd brought up previously, retrieved a cleaning kit. Placing his SIG on the room's table, he started to strip the small firearm down with practiced hands.

"Speaking of ex-Soviets in aeroplanes though," he started, "we might begin in Istanbul by visiting a friend."

Monty looked up from where she was stowing the remainder of the fratello's spoils from Monaco, money that hadn't gone to other members of their crew or the SWA itself, and cocked an eyebrow.

"You don't have anywhere we could start ourselves off _without_ advertising our presence?"

Jethro shrugged, "A few, but I've not been mixing with the Istanbul crowd for awhile now. Rade, however settled down there after he finished moving our run of Franklins... apparently the climate suited him better than Yugoslavia. Either way, he'll be more clued in to the local situation than I am."

Finished packing her bag, Monty padded across the ornate rug used to cover the room's rough hewn flooring and took the other chair at Jethro's table, settling in with a "do continue" expression on her face.

The ex-crook, with his firearm now apart, wiped his hand on a cloth and pinched the bridge of his nose before starting to explain. "The ink we used to forge the Franklins is a touch tightly controlled... mostly a result of its being so close to what the US mint uses. However, it was originally developed for short term, confidential documents. The high acidity of the compound means that anything written in it will literally fall apart after seven years; the standard legal period for which businesses need to keep minor documentation in most countries."

Picking up a small bottle of gun oil, Jethro carefully applied a few dabs where appropriate and started to re-assemble his black P230. "That sort of regulation leaves only a few options to acquire the stuff. One is to steal it yourself. Stock going missing however would put every white collar crime unit from here to judgement day on alert. In the end, the only properly practical route is to go through a supplier. He'll have a contact already inside the manufacturer who can move product out without raising flags... not sure how but my guess would be as QC-failed stock."

Jethro flicked the gun's takedown lever back up into place and racked the slide a couple of times to check its function. Then he inserted a fresh magazine, racked the slide again to camber a round, before de-cocking the hammer back to its safe position and sliding the pistol into his shoulder rig. "The supplier we went through is a man called Omurtak... never learned if he had a second name... and the ink is only one of his lines of business. Understandably he finds it safer to remain mobile and can be a little difficult to track down. So while we _could_ start looking in the same places I did last time, by virtue of being more local, Rade might be able to give us a better read on how to get in contact."

Monty fixed her handler with a hard look, "And how far can we trust this 'Rade' character..."

"About as far as I could throw him to be honest..." admitted Jethro, "...which isn't far at all. However, if we play it like there might be something in it for _him_, that should leave him curious enough to hold back and see where we take things."

Monty nodded her understanding and Jethro stood, packing up his cleaning kit as he did so.

"How to attack _that one _however, we can be dealt with tomorrow between here and Istanbul," stated the handler. "For now I want a shower and sleep."

* * *

><p>"Jethro Blacker! How are you my friend!"<p>

Standing on the pavement outside a five story apartment block, Jethro's hand was immediately enveloped in a bone crushing hold as Rade Janovich made his greeting.

"Surviving mate, surviving... and you?"

Monty, now dressed in a dapper grey suit, watched on as the two old colleagues exchanged pleasantries. Janovich looked to be a solidly build forty-something with dark hair and a heavy eyebrow line. He wore an expensive shirt, expensive trousers, expensive shoes and an exceedingly expensive Franck Muller Giga Tourbillion watch on his wrist... in PVD coated white gold. Seemingly the transport business had been kind.

The other indicator of course could have been the stunning blonde standing at his side. The cyborg eyed the woman with cool appraisal, taking in the well filled, low cut dress and tall heels being worn on a regular weekday. Finding nothing she felt might garner a threat there, Monty never-the-less moved herself slightly closer to her handler and into a position to keep Janovich's trophy in sight.

Still grasping Rade's hand, Jethro also shot the blonde a glance and leaned in closer to his acquaintance.

"She's a little young for you isn't she?" he intoned quietly.

"Big words my friend."

At that the Englishman let out a bark of laughter and pulled back, releasing his grip on Rade's paw so as to give his cyborg a light nudge forward. "Nothing of the sort I'm afraid. This is Monique; I guess you could call her my understudy."

"An 'understudy'? I never pictured you the type to pick up an apprentice."

Jethro offered a laconic grin at that and gave his girl's shoulder a quick squeeze, "Must be getting old, either that or Noel's bit about needing to bring fresh blood into the game is finally starting to catch."

Monty offered her hand and found it beset by the same firm grasp her handler had endured, which she returned holding steady eye contact.

"Well met Ms. Monique, I hope he is not dragging you all over world with him no?"

"I'm afraid so," returned the girl wryly.

At that the Yugoslav eyed Jethro again, "Ah, you never could stay in one place could you? It's bad for the soul this constantly moving around, it gets lost. Look at me: settled down, nice apartment in nice area... happy now. This by the way is Ninochka, my wife."

Another round of pleasantries were exchanged before Janovich ushered the fratello inside. A modern lift carried the group to the top floor and they were directed through a set of thick, double wooden doors into the apartment itself. While the building was old, the top floor had obviously been gutted to create one single, large space. The wide, open-plan living area was floored in white marble with occasional ornate gold and black fittings or colourful antiquities contrasting against the otherwise minimalist white theme. The front of the apartment had been replaced with glazing end to end, set just behind the building's facade and allowing the view to be framed by its original stonework. From its position on this desirable part of Istanbul's Kadikoy waterfront, the dwelling's occupants were afforded a spectacular vista out across the Sea of Marmara.

"Would you like drink?" offered Rade as he closed the door. "I would offer vodka, but seem remember you are more cognac man?"

"Cognac would be excellent, but only one, I need to drive," replied Jethro.

Janovich shrugged, "As you wish. Ninochka?"

The blonde woman made for a small bar area, grabbing Monty's elbow as she went. The cyborg however shook her hand away, accompanying the action with a baleful glare.

Leaving the trophy wife to fix drinks, the girl stalked off after her handler, towards the apartment's lounge area where both men had already settled into facing Le Corbusier chairs. Monty arranged herself onto a third piece of the French Modernist's design work: a chaise lounge positioned slightly off to one side, where she could keep an eye on the conversation as well as on the woman now preparing beverages.

Shortly, Ninochka arrived with three brandy balloons and a bottle of Hennessy Paradis cognac. Pouring a little of the dark liquid into each balloon, she set them before the party members and moved quietly away, out of the living space.

Jethro picked up his glass and took an appreciative sniff, "You've certainly moved up in the world since our forgery job, Rade."

The heavier set man gave a toothy grin, "Indeed. Move from ground transport into Ilyushin business was good one. I only have one aircraft back then, now running, how you say... 'half dozen' yes? First Africa, then Afghanistan, recently lot of business in Iraq and Cyprus, life is good."

"Keep that up," put in Jethro, "and you'll be able to put another Cinema on."

Janovich shook his head, "No, Ilyushins are good, but want Antonovs next, get into shorter strips... but what of you? I hear of casino heist in Monaco, think you may be involved."

Jethro let a laconic grin spread across his face, "Nope, wasn't me... whoever pulled _that_ off though, I'd like to shake their hand."

The transport man shrugged again, "So if you not need to move much Euro, what brings you to my corner of world?"

"Actually, I was hoping you might be able to give me a pointer or two about where to find our old supplier from the Franklin job."

There was a slight hesitation before the reply came, "You have new plan in works?"

"Perhaps... depends on if I can source some equipment and get it transported... heavy stuff."

At the mention he may have a role to play after all, Rade's eyes lit up for a second. However a shadow passed quickly over his face and he slumped back in his chair, "Unfortunately I have lost contact with Omur, so you on own there. To be honest, only thing I remember of him is that he enjoys chess. However, if find and need equipment moved..."

Jethro frowned, "Not even any pointers on his lackeys?"

The Yugoslav shook his head sadly, "No. What do you require moving?"

"Not sure until I know what's available... you offering mates' rates?"

"Ha! Now Mr. Blacker, you know that is not how I do business!"

* * *

><p>It was late afternoon by the time the fratello returned to their Beyoglu hotel from Istanbul's easterly, Anatolian shores. The former capitol's seething metropolis sprawled across Turkey's Bosphorus Strait, its bridges and ferries connecting the continents of Europe and Asia to one another: placement which had for centuries made it a hub for traders and business folk alike.<p>

The historic centre of Fatih, on the European landmass, had however been left to the tourists. Instead, the financial districts of Besiktas and Sisli, to the European side's northeast, now sprouted great steel and glass towers to replace the Old City's mighty bazaars as its economic hubs. Those new axels of Middle Eastern business created their own markets as well, and workers filtered south into Beyoglu's adjoined commercial and entertainment districts. With extra demand now placed on them, those districts grew and changed to cater to their moneyed clientele from the north: high-end fashion stores, bohemian cafes and gourmet restaurants clamoured for attention and continued Istanbul's East-meets-West tradition with a new and cosmopolitan air.

That new cosmopolitan air had made Beyoglu a natural place for the Blackers to base themselves. From a corner room in the Marmara Pera Hotel, comfortably ensconced in the establishment's mid-century, Dansk design furniture, Monty could see clear across two continents and down into the mass of humanity below. To the west, over the Golden Horn's stretch of water, lay the brightly lit Mosques of Fatih, beckoning visitors to its multitude of historic sights and accompanying hotels. Though the abundance of foreigners in that area would have made blending in easier, as the cyborg had pointed out: stone walls and postcards were fine for the tourist set, but anyone who wanted to get actual work done needed to be somewhat closer to the city's hub.

Right now however she wasn't paying attention to the view, instead scouring a list of RSS feeds, searching for a marker indicating the Agency had dropped a message or new information for her fratello. On the room's TV set, Al Jazeera's English language service was wrapping up the day's news, and the mind-numbing work allowed Monty to keep half an ear on what the reporter had to say. Once the Arab channel finished, and time permitting, she intended to flick across to the BBC's World Service to get a western media perspective on the same events.

Those plans were cut short as Jethro exited the bathroom. "C'mon luv, I say we go find something to eat."

The cyborg closed her computer down, stowing it in a drawer as her handler threw on his suit jacket, then grabbed a camel toned car coat, trilby and scarf to help ward off the late autumn chill.

Ferreting around in his girl's suitcase he withdrew the slender card folio she had filled at the bed and breakfast, "You said this was everyone we needed to rest for now?"

Monty nodded, "Bar the Archers, but we're still using them."

"Right."

Jethro slipped the folio inside his coat and made for the door while Monty picked up her own bone Burberry trench before joining him outside. Checking the door was locked; she quickly scanned the corridor and knelt down, leaving Jethro to keep watch. Breaking off a short strand of hair, the cyborg licked her fingers and secured it close to the floor, across the gap between the door and its frame. It was a rudimentary measure, but still a surprisingly effective one... sometimes it was good to stick with the classics. Content with her handy work, the girl stood again and motioned to her handler that they were alright to leave.

Three minutes later the pair was standing outside the Marmara Pera, in Istanbul's bustling early-evening streets.

"Any idea where to eat?"

Jethro had a city map, pilfered from the hotel reception, open and shot his cyborg a half-grin, "Yes actually, there's that little place around Fatih which was good last time. I think we'll grab a tram across the Horn and walk from there."

Getting to the tramway entailed a walk and short ride on one of Istanbul's two funicular rails, down to the Golden Horn waterfront. Then a thoroughly modern light rail system whisked the fratello west: out of Beyoglu's Galata neighbourhood, over the water and into the Old City.

Disembarking two stops before their actual destination, Jethro and Monty lost themselves among the tourists swarming through Fatih's Sultanahmet area. Gone was Monty's suit of the morning, replaced with a light blue a-line dress, trimmed in white over charcoal turtleneck, and matching baggy white railroad cap. As the tram car pulled away, Jethro jammed the trilby on his head and threw an arm around his cyborg to guide her off the platform. Reaching up, the girl adjusted the hat to a more rakish angle as they ambled up the street; two leisurely travellers out on the town for the evening.

The fratello's meandering course took them slowly north, out of Fatih's historical heart and into the streets of the Old City. As they moved deeper into the residential areas, the beeps of digital cameras and multitude of languages gave way to the soft buzz of Turkish conversation filtering out of houses and eateries.

Cutting up an alleyway, Jethro and Monty arrived at an innocuous looking small restaurant with a couple of filled tables in the street outside it. As they stepped through the front door, the proprietor came to meet the fratello with two menus. A soft word from Jethro secured a secluded booth set against the establishment's wall and ten minutes later he was back to take their orders.

Noting down the pair's selections the man asked, "And will there be any drinks tonight?

Jethro shook his head, "Just water for me."

"I'll have a Negroni, no ice," put in Monty.

Suddenly the proprietor was paying her much closer attention. Motioning to the rack of spirits behind the restaurant counter he said carefully, "I'm sorry, but as you can see we have no gin."

Glancing briefly at the selection, and noting full bottles from at least four different suppliers, the cyborg returned her steady gaze to their server. "Well you're certainly out of No.3, which was what I was after anyway. I'll have a lime and soda instead... and the food had best make up for the lack of decorum."

"Come to think of it, we'll take a bottle of the house red with three glasses as well," finished Jethro.

At that the proprietor nodded and left the fratello again in peace with the buzz of the restaurant around them.

"So what did you think at Jan's place today?" queried Monty, shortening Janovich's name in conversation to a more generic form.

Jethro sat back in his seat and considered his partner's question. Certainly it hadn't been the start he'd hoped for however...

"I think it was odd that he'd lost contact with Omar. Not impossible, but odd. The latter specializes in getting people what they need, and our winged friend there specializes in getting it to them. It's amazing what his pilots can squeeze into one of those birds around a legitimate cargo. That to me would seem like a match made in heaven, so you'd assume they'd at least have kept an eye on one another."

The handler picked up his hat and started spinning it idly on his finger as he talked, "That said, there's plenty of aviation transporters out there willing to pick up a quick quid or two. Either way, we're going to be starting from square one..."

Jethro's voice trailed off as the restaurant's proprietor returned carrying a tray. From it he removed a bottle of wine and three wine glasses. Opening the bottle he let Jethro sniff the cork and, seeing the customer was apparently satisfied, filled each waiting piece of stemware. As he placed the bottle on the table he also set down a metal safe box, which Monty quickly swept onto the booth's seat out of sight.

"And my lime and soda?"

The man bowed his apologies, "I am sorry Miss, it will be along shortly."

Alone again, with his companion glaring balefully after the proprietor bustling back across the room, Jethro pulled the card folio from his jacket. Extracting a small key from its spine, he opened the safe box and began rapidly switching its contents with the used identities in the folio.

"Time's almost up Guv."

At the counter, their host had just lifted his tray with a lime and soda on it and started to return across the room. Placing the last fresh passport into the folio, Jethro zipped it up, stuffed it back in his jacket and locked the box closed again.

"A thousand pardons for the inconvenience."

Monty fixed the restaurateur with a cold gaze a he placed a perfectly made lime and soda in front of her.

"Thank you," she returned icily.

"We won't be requiring this either," added Jethro, handing the extra glass of wine back.

"Of course sir, again, I am terribly sorry."

Bowing his apologies, the owner used the same motion to scoop the safe box up off the table; where Jethro had placed it once the slightly rotund man arrived to block the rest of the restaurant's view. Concealing it under the empty tray now held vertically beside him, the proprietor moved back to the kitchen carrying the undrunk glass of wine and disappeared to the back of house.

"I hope he doesn't let that go to waste."

Jethro eyed his cyborg as she took another sip from her own glass. "I'm sure someone back there will be able to put it to good use. Either way we still need to remember to leave our tip."

Monty shot her handler a small smile and non-committal shrug; with a fresh set of aliases now in hand, the fratello could afford to focus again on getting on with the job they had come to Istanbul for originally. Leaving extra cash at the restaurant for that privilege seemed like a small price to pay.

"So I realise we're basically back at square one, but tell me exactly how far _back_ square one really is."

"Not too far back I hope," admitted Jethro. "When we last did business with Omar, it was me who dealt with tracking down materials and suppliers. We'll start by hitting some of the places I was told I could make contact last time... if we're lucky those haven't changed too much."

Monty looked dubious, "Hope and luck are things I'd prefer we didn't into our planning. Is there some sort of general pattern to follow should we have to take another step backwards?"

"To square zero?"

"If you like."

"Usually Omar leaves a few feelers out in places they can be contacted without raising suspicion. For foreigners that's through here..." Jethro tapped the table top, "...around the Old City where the tourists frequent, or in the business districts."

"With that in mind," he continued, "I say we start with the haunts in the Old City tomorrow then work our way up toward the business district... ah!"

Jethro pulled back from the table, where he had been leaning in to speak to his cyborg, in order to allow the restaurateur to start placing plates of steaming food on the butchers' paper "tablecloth".

Having filled her plate from the shared dishes, Monty picked up a piece of _dolma_ with her fork.

"You know," she noted with a dry smirk, seemingly addressing the morsel hanging in front of her, "for people who travel on business, we seem to spend an awful lot of time playing _tourist_."

* * *

><p>The next day found the Blacker fratello back in Sultanahmet, wandering the grounds around Topkapi Palace. Cited on a high promontory at the mouth of the Golden Horn, and separating that from the Sea of Marmara, Topkapi had been the seat of power for the Ottoman Sultans during almost 400 years of their reign. Having first displaced the previous Byzantine Acropolis, the palace had grown and evolved into a sprawling walled complex of multitudinous residences, baths, hospitals, kitchens and so on; all riddled with secret passageways. At the height of its power it had housed over four thousand servants and staff to look after the Sultan and his family.<p>

With the fall of the Empire, the buildings and their grounds had been decreed as a museum of the Imperial era. Now, its rooms still bustled with humanity as they had centuries before, though the rushing bodies now wielded cameras rather than brooms and linen. While parts of its complex had been given over to other exhibits, within its walls remained some of the most priceless artefacts of the period.

"That's why it's still one of my favourite museums," noted Jethro as the fratello ambled down the Courtyard of the Sultan's Consorts and Concubines, "lots of options and a security nightmare."

"I mean, look at this," went on the handler, inspecting a transparent-cased exhibit. "Admittedly the piece is nothing special, but the glass is thin and the pressure sensor in there is rubbish. Any half competent thief could have that away over the rooftops before anyone knew what had happened."

"_Focus_," muttered Monty quietly. "We've plenty enough ways to get in trouble already without finding extras."

Stopping in front of another small information plaque and starting to read, she continued, "Still, this complex is huge, it's going to take forever to get right through it."

"Longer," added Jethro, pulling up behind his girl, "This isn't just a matter of combing every room; it's about being in the right place at the right time. So get ready for a frustrating few days of playing hurry up and wait."

Monty made a face at that and her handler bent down to wrap an arm around her. Putting his head on her shoulder, so as to be just in her peripheral vision, he continued. "We'll do a circuit around Fatih this week, then move up to the business districts if we have no luck."

"It'd be good if we could split up and cover more ground," replied the cyborg.

Jethro considered this, "Maybe I should draw you some pictures, so you know who we're looking for."

"Maybe you _should_."

"Not sure if I trust my memory that far back… but we'll give it a stab anyway. At the very least it'll mean we're not relying solely on _my_ eyes."

* * *

><p>The fratello's circuit took them through the palace and to the former stables on its north-western boundary, which now housed the Museum of the History of Science in Islam. From there they moved southwest out of the palace grounds, through Aya Sofya Square and along the gardens between it and the impressive Blue Mosque. Approaching that last, Monty undid her red gauze scarf from where it was serving as a faux ascot and covered her hair. Although Turkey was constitutionally secular, to the point where the wearing of a headscarf was banned in some public spaces, around these bastions of Islamic tradition, observance of custom was still considered polite. It was perhaps then ironic that the conservative Old City would also be the area subject to the highest percentage of tourist traffic.<p>

Finding no luck at the mosque either, Jethro and Monty found a seat in Sultanahmet Square, just outside its gates as the _adhan_, the call to prayer, started to ring out from the building's six minarets. People still milled through the open space, tourists transiting between the mosque and the Turkish and Islamic Arts museum directly opposite, or stopping to take a photo of the Obelisk of Theodosius erected between. Amongst the foreigners were also local Turks, either less devout Muslims or of other religious denominations, still rushing about their daily business. Content to rest his feet for a bit, Jethro settled down to search faces for a potential lead, and otherwise just people-watch.

Though she hid it well, his cyborg was less happy. It wasn't the drudgenous footwork that bothered her: that she had long ago come to accept as coming with the territory of her job. Instead it was the feeling of uselessness that she was finding frustrating. The fratello was searching for people her handler had known years ago, people she had no idea what they looked like. With nothing give her direction, Monty was reduced to tagging along as her handler searched for faces in the crowd. If that was all she was to do then she may as well have been one of the domestic drones back at the Agency.

Sensing his girl wasn't feeling exactly salubrious, Jethro reached around and gave her shoulder a squeeze, "Chin up, our next stop is the Arts Museum… that's where I made contact last time."

That gave Monty cause to fix her handler with an appraising look, "They actually let you into those places still?"

"No-one's found just cause to throw me out… yet."

* * *

><p>Unfortunately, the Islamic and Turkish Arts Museum, though displaying some fine pieces, was devoid of anyone Jethro could place as one of Omurtak's lackeys. By the evening, a meandering course had carried the Blackers northwest; eventually landing in a small café near the gates of Istanbul's famous Grand Bazaar. That however proved fruitless as well, but did provide a decent, if none-too-exciting and tourist focused dinner, set amongst the bustle of the streets.<p>

Resultantly, it was a tired and footsore fratello who returned to their hotel and checked that Monty's strand of hair was still in place on their door. Removing her battered hiking boots, the cyborg placed them neatly next to the cupboard and turned to her handler.

"Would it be possible to get some of those sketches tonight?"

Jethro scratched his chin, "I could probably knock out one or two... but first I want a shower and shave."

Starting to unbuckle the belt on her khaki safari suit, the girl nodded, "Well then, give me your clothes. Mine should probably go straight to the laundry service, so I imagine yours could benefit from a wash as well."

While she waited for her handler to strip off in the bathroom, Monty removed the rest of her outfit, replacing it with a simple black pencil skirt and white t-shirt with a deep v-neck. Booting up her computer, she picked up checking for Agency communication markers at the same point she'd left off the previous night.

On a mod fashion blog she found what she was looking for; in an anonymous comment dated some two days earlier. From the direction of the bathroom door there was a dull thud of a wad of fabric hitting carpet and the shower starting up, but now Monty had something better to do with her time. Typing in the URL for the blog's associated drop box, she started the file she wanted downloading and went to her duffle. From it she extracted a USB thumb drive which was soon plugged into the Macbook Pro and, encryption chip in place, opened the computer's wifi controls to click onto the new network which had just appeared. As she entered a different username and password; the little drive booted up its hidden decryption software. Searching her computer via the program's interface, the cyborg selected the file she had just downloaded and entered her memorized day code, which would tell the software both that she was legitimate and what decryption protocol to use.

Program running, Monty started to get out of her chair, with the intention of gathering up the fratello's dirty washing to take down to reception for the hotel laundry service. However she'd barely stood up when the computer dinged to say it had finished its task. Returning to her seat, a puzzled cyborg read the simple, single line of text which the downloaded file had contained and growled something unpleasant under her breath.

Quickly she shut down the software, removed and stowed the encryption key and wiped all trace of the message from her system. Then, collecting the room's swipe card, she stuffed her own and her handler's discarded clothing in a supplied laundry bag and headed for reception, mulling over options as she went.

By the time she returned, Jethro was out of the shower and sitting at the table in a bath robe. In front of him were the room's supplied notepad and pen, with which he'd started to sketch out the likeness of one of Omurtak's front men. At the sound of his cyborg's knock however he looked up, watching as she entered the room.

"What's wrong?"

Having come to grips by now with her handler's ability to somehow read her moods like a book, Monty started straight into her grouch. "Nothing new, just the people we work with being their usual moronic selves is all. The Agency managed to break the encryption on that hard drive we picked up in Monaco. It's too big to transmit across the internet, so they've sent a physical copy..."

Jethro gave her a quizzical look, "And that's a bad thing?"

The cyborg scowled, "It is when they send it to the _Italian Consulate_. Do either of us look or sound even _remotely_ Italian?"

By now she had reached the table. Opening her computer back up, Monty started to tap away rapidly at the keyboard.

"What're you doing?"

"Drafting a response to Ferro, instructing _her_ to instruct the _consulate_ to forward their package on to either the _British_ Consulate, the _French_ Consulate or, even better: straight to _this_ hotel, care of our aliases and preferably via a proxy. Then, I'm requesting she find whoever was responsible for that decision in the first place and to ask them if they'd care to apply a little _common sense_ next time."

Leaving his drawing for a moment, Jethro moved around behind his grouchy partner and started massaging her shoulders. "I guess the mistake's somewhat understandable luv: the SWA deals primarily in domestic affairs. Running international agents is something they've not a lot of experience in."

"I wouldn't call this an experience issue so much as a lack of forethought issue… and I could _certainly_ do without the SWA adding their own extra little complications to my life."

Reaching over his girl, Jethro gently but firmly closed the lid of her laptop. "Go have a shower, you can finish that later..."

Monty started to open her mouth, but her handler cut in over the top, "...besides, I want to get an early night and I can't do that with _you_ clattering around in the bathroom. So: bath."

* * *

><p>Jethro and Monty started their circuit at the Blue Mosque the next day. Without the sprawling Palace to deal with first, by the time the midday prayer was called they had reached the Bazaar fronting café at which they'd previously ended their search. Installed at a footpath table, with a coffee and cool drink each, the fratello settled in to again watch the passersby. The previous night, and good to his word, Jethro had managed to complete two simple sketches. The first was of Omurtak himself, and the other of the front man through whom the onetime crook had made contact during the Franklin job. Having committed both to memory, Monty now at least felt she could contribute something to their endeavours, rather than just being dead weight.<p>

An hour passed, and one of the café's waiters brought their food orders and fresh coffees. Making the most of the tourist-geared establishment, Monty was about to take the first bite out of her club sandwich when she felt Jethro tapping her leg under the table. Lowering her meal, the cyborg looked across at her handler, who gestured with his head toward the café's entrance. Standing and talking to the waiter was a mousy, nervous looking Arab man with a thin moustache and wearing a generic navy blue suit. Going back to her sandwich, the cyborg kept a subtle eye on him as he crossed the café and sat down at a back corner table. Content he wasn't going anywhere soon, Monty threw her handler a quizzical look.

"That," said Jethro quietly, "is Omar's accountant… or at least _was_ two and a bit years ago."

"Looked nervous."

"He was a jittery little slime back then too," Jethro skewered another kofta ball with his fork. "Finish your meal, but keep an eye on our mate there and be ready to move. At least this café has decent service, so getting the bill in a hurry shouldn't be an issue."

"You're thinking we follow him?"

"I'm thinking we do," replied the ex-MI6 spy. "He's not an established contact point, for that matter we don't even know if he's still part of the same outfit, but he may lead us to someone useful. Either way, it's got beat traipsing around this circuit again."

That last point Monty wasn't going to argue, and she tucked into her sandwich with renewed vigour.

Half an hour passed while the café's theatre played out around its new cast member. Wait staff came with a menu, wait staff went with an order and returned again with food. As the accountant was seated out of his field of vision, Jethro had to rely on his cyborg to keep him updated on the man's actions. Even if he wasn't catching the bulk of the show however, the handler had been observing its opening act at the café entrance and how this new character interacted with the supporting cast. There had been no pre-amble, no small talk, no urge to do anything other than the task immediately at hand, and someone with that much nervous energy wasn't likely to dally around for pleasantries. Which meant the fratello should be safe to…

"He's finished his meal," reported Monty quietly.

That was his cue. Jethro signalled a passing waiter, "Could we get the bill please?"

"Of course."

The man returned promptly with a bill, and Jethro took his time, counting out the Turkish Lira in the manner of a tourist dealing with unfamiliar currency. In doing so he gave the accountant a chance to collect his own cheque. The handler added a margin large enough to make it clear that there was a tip involved and that no change would be required and sent the grateful waiter on his way.

Still needing to kill more time, as the fratello stood to leave, its male half stopped to hunt around the table, then through his jacket and eventually retrieved an errant pair of sunglasses from the inside pocket. Seemingly relieved at not having lost the black-framed Ray Bans, he slipped them on and grabbed the jacket from the back of his chair. Jethro was doing up the top fastening as the accountant stepped out into the street and made a beeline for the Grand Bazaar's nearest entrance.

Tourist attraction and shopping mecca combined, the Bazaar's covered streets were a seething mass of humanity. Shafts of sunlight from windows, set high in the arched ceiling, cut through the hot, muggy atmosphere inside. Merchants raised their voices to bring people to their shops, or rushed back and forward bringing more wares in from outside. Holidayers looking for trinkets mingled with locals, all shouting at each other in a great melange of languages to be heard above the hubbub. Others just stood in the middle of the walkway to gawp; seemingly oblivious to the obstruction they caused to those trying to get past.

Through the middle of it all, the Blackers followed their mark, keeping a casual visage and navigating the melee with practiced ease. For his part, the accountant also maintained a relaxed pace, but was patently having difficulty doing so. Every so often he would glance around himself nervously and Monty's keen eyes could make out the white-knuckle grip he maintained on his black attaché case.

As they entered an area dominated by luggage and other similar items, the accountant turned suddenly and ducked into one of the stores. Easing across the covered laneway, Jethro and Monty stopped to eye the storefront opposite and wait for their quarry to emerge again.

From a stand, Jethro picked up a red felt fez, assumedly aimed at the tourist market, inspected it briefly then placed it jauntily on his head.

"You're not _seriously_ going to wear that are you?"

The handler looked shocked, "_Absolutely._ Who'd ever suspect the man in a fez?"

Monty took in her handler: slim-cut, light grey, two button suit, crisp white shirt, slender black-knit tie, dark Wayfarers and now a bright red fez... complete with tassel.

"Anyone who's seen a 60's spy film," replied the cyborg flatly. "You _do_ realize wearing that thing's still technically illegal here right..." Monty's voice trailed off as the accountant re-emerged, now carrying a different briefcase but no less nervous looking. "...Put it back, our friend's come out again."

Jethro removed his headpiece and turned to leave, but suddenly found the fez being thrust back into his hands by the store's owner.

Turning back he pushed it away again, "No, I don't want it."

The fez returned, "Twenty Lira."

"No. I said I..."

Monty however was watching their quarry starting to slip away up the street.

"_Skipper..._"

"I said I don't _want_ it. Look, just... hold on."

Breaking for a second to turn to his cyborg, the handler growled under his breath, "Get after him, I'll catch you up."

Hesitating for only the briefest moment, Monty disappeared into the crowd and Jethro recommenced his argument.

"No, I said I don't want your bloody fez... and I _certainly _don't want it for twenty Lira!" Jethro paused to check if he could see his cyborg, but she and the accountant had vanished. "... I'll give you _eight_. _Maximum."_

* * *

><p>Further up the Bazaar the accountant, whether consciously or no, had quickened his pace. Now however, devoid of her handler's company, Monty could make use of her small, waif-like stature to thread her way efficiently through the throng of people. One upside of the hot and crowded environment was that it was easy for the cyborg to remain concealed as her quarry moved toward the market's northern end, simply letting her path place fellow pedestrians between herself and him.<p>

Once clear of the covered streets however, Monty's job became more difficult. Exiting into the sunlight, Omurtak's accountant veered east and downhill, headed seemingly for the Golden Horn's waterfront and the low Galata Bridge stretching between Sultanahmet and the far shore. Moving further from the Bazaar's tourist trap, the crowds on the street thinned out more and Monty dropped further back to remain unnoticed. Though her acute vision would allow her to keep tabs on her mark, even from a much greater distance, if he suddenly took a side street she was going to need to move fast in order to reacquire him before he disappeared from sight.

Retrieving her sunglasses from where they hung on the unbuttoned collar of her blouse, the girl slipped the white plastic fashion frames on. Unfortunately it was the best she could do for now as Turkey's staunchly secular constitution wouldn't even allow her the luxury of a headscarf, not unless she felt inclined to really raise eyebrows as a western woman following Islamic tradition when she didn't need to.

Further down the street the accountant crossed an intersection and turned right, forcing Monty to quicken her pace in order to avoid being left behind. She was about to cross after him when there was a tugging at her sleeve.

"Would you care to inspect my fine shirts Miss?"

Monty's head snapped down to take in the street hawker with his wares displayed on the pavement.

"No."

"Ah but Miss, they are…"

"Let go or so help me I will make a _martyr_ of you," hissed the cyborg.

Shaking the man off, Monty abandoned her attempt to cross the traffic and strode down her own side of the street, using the wider angle of view it afforded to scan the footpath opposite for her target. When she found him he was almost another hundred meters further up and the cyborg quickened her pace again in an attempt to draw level.

She'd only managed to close half the distance however when the accountant turned left, away from her, into the next main street. Growling something unpleasant under her breath, the cyborg hastily checked left and right as best she could then dashed out across the traffic, leaving the squeal of tyres and blaring horns in her wake.

Dodging around the last slowing car, Monty followed the path she'd seen the accountant take. Twenty metres down the next street she managed to reacquire him and started closing the gap again. The pair tracked straight toward the waterfront, continuing as the asphalt ran out and crossed onto the wide forecourt of one of the district's many mosques. The wide open space gave Monty new cause for concern. However, with few options available to her, all she could do was drop back a little further and try to keep clear of the accountant's sightline as he glanced around. Fortunately his actions seemed to be more a result of nerves than any calculated attempt to single out a pursuer, leaving his tail reasonably able to remain undetected.

Having covered the grounds and almost at the western end of the Galata Bridge, the accountant crossed another road to the open space between the mosque and waterfront. There he struck out diagonally, travelling toward a tram station situated in the middle of the next band of asphalt closer to the Golden Horn. Drawing level with it he stopped, checking the traffic and, content the trip wasn't going to get him killed, crossed to the raised platform.

Her quarry seeming to have reached his immediate destination, Monty pulled up, starting to snap photos of the mosque and bridge with her little Leica as she weighed options. The tram station was small, and the accountant was sure to at least see her if she joined him on it. Whether the presence of a single western girl would concern him at all was another matter, and in this part of the city foreigners were plentiful. The only other time she was certain he may have noticed her before was at the café she and Jethro had first picked him up at. Still: once was an accident, twice a coincidence… as long as she didn't make it three a tram ride with her mark shouldn't increase her risk unduly.

Unwilling however to expose herself longer than absolutely necessary, the girl took a few more photos, before starting to amble toward the platform. Having studied a city map on her arrival, Monty knew the tramway made a loop through Fatih. It ran in from the west, inland of the Marmara coast, turned north behind Topkapi Palace and then up the Golden Horn to the Galata Bridge where it crossed the water into Galata and Beyoglu. As a result those tramlines also almost encircled the Grand Bazaar, with the closest being on its southern side. It was a logical assumption then that, if the accountant hadn't intended to cross the Horn he would have made for one of the closer, southern tram stops or simply walked to his destination. Of course he could have been actively trying to throw off a tail, but his actions so far didn't suggest that was the case.

Despite feeling confident in her reasoning, Monty still watched closely as a south-bound tram pulled up. If she was wrong about where he was headed, she was going to need to make a fast decision whether to let her quarry go or risk a flat-out dash to the next tram stop. Realising she was probably paying the whole scene slightly too much attention, the cyborg turned to a posted route map, before returning to squint at the light rail car's slab side to check its destination posted there and back to the map.

Fortunately for her, as the cars rumbled out of the station, the accountant was still standing on the platform. Feeling the need to help shore up the part of "tourist" she had just played, Monty retrieved her Leica again and, swallowing down the slight disgust she always felt at emulating the camera-wielding group she held in such distain, took another photo of the departing tram. From further down the street however, the sound of metal on metal signalled the approach its Galata bound counterpart.

Making use of the _Istanbulkart,_ electronic ticket she'd purchased on arrival in the city, the cyborg took a seat near the front. The articulated vehicle's long, open interior allowed her to watch as the accountant boarded at the rear and made to sit down. Almost immediately however he stood up again to offer his seat to a woman getting aboard, and in the process certified he'd be clearly visible at least until the next stop.

With a screech of metal, the tram rumbled away and north across the Galata Bridge. As it neared the opposite shore, Monty's mark started to edge closer the exit. Excusing herself to a man standing in the aisle next to her seat, the cyborg rose and headed for the forward door.

She was on the platform almost as soon as the doors had opened at Karakoy station, situated right on the Golden Horn's northern waterfront and from where she and her handler had originally caught the tram to Fatih. Taking a knee and turning back toward the bridge the Leica was lifted again, as if to snap a nicely composed shot down the side of the tram cars. In the camera's small screen, Monty watched as the accountant exited. Checking quickly left and right, he climbed off the platform and started into Beyoglu proper, directly away from the water.

Again maintaining a safe distance, Monty gave chase. Though not as thick on the ground as in Fatih, Beyoglu saw its fair share of foreigners. The concentration was slightly greater in the immediate vicinity too as, headed uphill, pursuer and pursued were climbing toward the ancient Galata Tower. That however they passed right by and continued upward, pace slackening slightly as the accountant started to succumb to the clutches of gravity. Cresting the slope he turned into the next street and stopped for a rest.

Propping herself casually against a wall, just out of sight around the corner, Monty listened while the man brought his breathing under control. Given a moment to get her bearings she grimaced as she realized the irony in where they'd fetched up. The area was terribly familiar: if they turned left at the next intersection it would take her directly to the funicular rail, which she and her handler had been using to get to Karakoy tram station. If they turned right, it would take her into the fashion centre of Istiklal Avenue and eventually, to her hotel. Essentially, the fratello could have just taken up residence in an appropriate cafe and waited for the accountant to walk past, rather than traipsing all over the Old City, and gained equal success.

Around the corner, the sound of heavy breathing had quietened and Monty could hear leather soled shoes starting to tap on pavement again. Glancing through the window behind her, the cyborg saw her mark pass by its diagonally opposite number on the building's front facade, headed away up the footpath.

Starting again in pursuit, Monty didn't get far before she was again forced to remain concealed. In the small square the two had just entered were a set of escalators descending into the ground, with a metro sign and the word "Sishane" picked out on the stonework above them. On the escalator itself was the accountant, descending into the clutches of Istanbul's underground rail system. Waiting for him to disappear out of sight, Monty headed for the entrance herself.

Highly polished stone floors clicked under the cyborg's soles as she stepped off the descending stair. For once, luck was on her side as Sishane station was the end of Istanbul's M2 metro line. There was only one direction to go from it: north... under Beyoglu, then toward the financial and business districts of Besiktas and the urban areas beyond. Swiping her card at the turnstile, the girl found her next problem waiting: at this time of day, the metro was not particularly busy and its corridors sparsely populated. To make matters worse, Sishane's platform was a long, arched tunnel offering almost nothing in the way of concealment... and Monty had used up her only "get out of gaol free" card at the first tram stop.

She stopped to weigh options again, and they were not good. One was to end the pursuit right here and now and go back to trudging the circuit in Fatih. That certainly didn't appeal and would feel too much like failure. The second would be to risk getting spotted, maintain her current casual attitude and hope the accountant either wasn't playing by Moscow Rules or hadn't noticed her at the cafe and/or tram-stop.

Monty swallowed her pride… and chose option three.

Waiting in the platform's access corridor, as the train pulled into the station, the cyborg started to countdown. Reaching zero she took a deep breath and dashed into view, across the platform and swept through the train's doors just as they started to close. Leaning over inside the carriage, hands on her knees, Monty feigned being out of breath and looked up and down the subway car. Finding Omurtak's accountant staring at the strange panting girl, she threw him her best embarrassed grin, before moving "self-consciously" to a seat and "collapsing" into it.

Settling slightly more comfortably, Monty checked she could still see her mark then, in fitting with her cover, pulled out her own copy of the hotel supplied tourist map and studied it intently. The act was only in part for the benefit of potential observers. Finding Sishane station, the cyborg followed the M2 metro line north up the coast of the Bosphorus. At each station marked, she scanned the surrounding area, taking note of any potential tourist attractions, shops or similar nearby: anything which would give her a plausible excuse to get off in that vicinity.

Glancing up periodically to make sure her quarry still hadn't moved, Monty worked her way up the map to where the M2 split. Tracing the line south again as far as Taksim Station, which had just slid by the window, she booted up Wikipedia on her iPhone and started looking up the various sights she had chosen. At the rate the train was moving she only had time to skim the introduction for each article, but Monty was a fast reader, and it was enough to give her a little background on each.

Soon they'd left the borders of Beyoglu and entered the financial districts of Besiktas. Feeling that this would be a logical area for the Omurtak's accountant to leave the train, Monty got out of her seat, moving closer to the doors in the manner of tourists everywhere unsure of their stop. As each station passed she glanced down at her map again, as if checking how many stops she had to go, or if she had inadvertently missed the one she wanted.

Eventually, as the train slowed into Gayrettepe station, the accountant stepped up to the doors himself. As soon as they opened Monty was out and, sparing a quick glance to make sure she was at the station expected, strode off down the platform. Pausing briefly at the next corridor intersection to get her bearings she quickly made her way out of the metro, ahead of her target.

Taking a position at the top of the station's exit ramp, Monty again studied her dog-eared map, glancing around and pointing at streets or landmarks then back to the map, like someone trying to relate what they saw to ink on paper. It wasn't long before the accountant reached ground level as well. However, instead of walking away, he headed straight for the cyborg and the girl bit back a curse as her adrenalin spiked. The accountant however made a placating gesture as he walked toward her.

"You seem lost," he started in a heavily accented but surprisingly pleasant tenor. "Could I perhaps be of assistance?"

Monty breathed an internal sigh of relief, but remained on guard, "I was going to take a look at Zincirlikuyu Cemetery... just trying to get my bearings."

Studying the map the girl held out and where she was pointing, the accountant stroked his thin moustache for a few seconds, then waved her to follow him. Leading her to a taxi rank, he pointed up the street.

"You'll want to go that way, then turn…" he looked at the map again… "First street right."

Accepting her map back, Monty nodded and gave her thanks in some of the little Turkish she knew, "Sağ olun."

Turning from the girl, her helper moved to the first taxi at the rank and let himself into the rear seat. Monty though stayed where she was, rechecking the route he had laid out on the map and, seemingly content, sauntered off the opposite direction. Fortunately, cyborgs came with the same five senses as humans, and much better versions of the originals at that. As soon as she heard her quarry's taxi pull out and start to accelerate up the street, the girl jumped for the nearest car. Sliding across the vinyl bench in the rear of the taxi she doled two fifty Lira notes out of her wallet and dumped them on the front passenger seat.

"Follow that taxi and don't ask questions," ordered Monty, gesturing at the accountant's vehicle. "There'll be double that once you reach his destination… and don't let them notice you either."

Knowing better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, her surprised driver nodded and pulled out into the traffic, cutting off a passing delivery truck. As the blare of the truck's horn and curses of its occupant followed them up the road, Monty buckled her seatbelt and gripped the handhold a little tighter.

The raised position this part of the city enjoyed gave a fantastic view down the street and out across the Bosphorus to Istanbul's Anatolian shore. Almost directly ahead was one of the strait's giant bridges, stretching toward the far coast, with the taxi carrying Monty's mark driving toward it. However, as the two cars descended, the lead vehicle veered off the approach to the bridge, heading instead for the waterfront. As her own taxi followed suit, Monty noted the area passing by the window getting more residential and upmarket. Large, lushly planted properties matched the expensive yachts moored along the shoreline, giving some indication of the monetary worth of those residing here. Eventually they reached the water and turned left, following a wide promenade north along the Bosphorus Strait.

A kilometre or so further on, the lead car started to slow, and Monty signalled her driver to pull up in a side street. Handing over another hundred Turkish Lira, she gestured to herself then, pinching her fingers as if holding a zipper, drew them across her lips.

"I never happened, and you don't want to talk about it."

The cabbie nodded his understanding. The strange girl's payment had been over ten times what he'd normally have earned on a similar trip, enough to buy a fair amount of discreet silence.

Letting the taxi go, Monty moved swiftly back to the main street. Approximately a hundred meters further up, the accountant's car had drawn to a halt in front of a large, whitewashed, two story building with a terracotta roof, situated on its own bit of waterfront land. A doorman, dressed in a classic black mandarin collar jacket, had met the vehicle to usher his new arrival inside. Sauntering up her side of the street, letting the parked cars conceal her from view, the cyborg burnt details of the building into her brain. It was well maintained, with a neatly trimmed low hedge out the front. In a small carpark to one side were a number of vehicles of the more expensive, luxury variety. Added to the doorman's presence it would be a fair assumption that this was some kind of club, probably of the private persuasion.

Monty briefly considered trying to get inside, but quickly discarded the idea as at least one person there laboured under the impression she was busy reading gravestones three kilometres further inland. Instead remaining on her side of the asphalt, she continued her relaxed stroll down the street and considered her next course of action. On the blocks to the club's southern side were private residences which, going by the size and waterfront positioning, probably had a staff. Though one may have allowed her to get a look into the club grounds and rear area, Monty would have preferred to avoid risking a spate of broad daylight breaking and entry.

To the north was public parkland. That however offered very little cover so close to her target and, as far as she could tell, didn't protrude as far out into the water as the club's land anyway; the latter having assumedly been constructed on a certain amount of reclaimed dirt to give it more space. Either way, it again robbed her of a view into the building's rear.

About another hundred meters further up however, where the waterfront started to curve out into the Bosphorus, was a low, single story building, jutting out over the water on slender piles. In the hope that it was some sort of public amenity, Monty continued up the street toward it.

As luck would have it, wedged into the corner of the building beside a tourist information centre, was a small cafe. Realizing that it was now late afternoon and that she hadn't eaten since lunch, the girl located a waiter. Organizing an outside table, she quietly steered the man to a seat with a nice, clear view across the water to the back terrace of the building her mark had entered.

Sending the waiter off with an order for a Turkish coffee and baklava, Monty settled down to stickybeak. The distance would almost certainly keep her safe from any regular human in the next property distinguishing her features, whereas going the other way, her sharp eyes allowed her to pick out individual faces in great detail.

The rear of the club had sections of its upper story built out to form an overhang, creating a covered veranda under which tables and comfortable looking rattan arm chairs had been placed. Further out toward the water, large white parasols kept the sun off similar table and chair setups and it was under one of these that Monty spotted her accountant. Amongst the rest of the club's clientele his generic suit looked terribly low-rent, and she decided it a high probability he was visiting someone rather than a member. That someone was sitting facing away from his observer at that moment, but talking with some animation.

Her waiter returned with coffee and food and the cyborg picked at the offering while she continued to monitor the pair, head resting on her hand and apparently deep in thought. Across the water, one of the club's staff arrived at the accountant's table to clear empty glasses and the latter's companion twisted around to address the mandarin-suited man. ..

...and suddenly, Monty felt her day had been completely worthwhile, every minute of it. Seated opposite his accountant, was a man whose face Jethro had drawn for her just the previous night: Omurtak.

Withdrawing her iPhone, the cyborg activated its vampire app, a modern update of technology pioneered by the KGB, allowing it to disguise itself as any mobile in the area it could lift a number off. On the touch screen she tapped out a quick, cryptic, message to her handler, stating she had found their supplier and would now be headed back to the hotel before she risked exposing herself further.

Having paid the bill, but now a long way from public transport and not willing to use another taxi so soon, Monty continued her walk north along the seafront. Occasionally she would stop to take a photo or consult her map again, but eventually the course brought her to one of the Bosphorus Line commuter ferry stops. Opting for a paper ticket over the _Istanbulkart_, she boarded the ferry north and found a seat which would give her a good view of passengers boarding and disembarking. Keeping with the northbound boat till the Yenikoy terminal, another five or so kilometres up the Strait, she then changed to the southbound Scenic Route.

The sudden switch in direction meant that very few people followed through the same transfer, and the cyborg put a mental mark against those who did. Motoring south in long, lazy legs, the scenic ferry puttered back toward the Sea of Marmara. On either shore, late afternoon sun threw Istanbul's buildings into sharp relief, much to the delight of the few photographers lining the vessel's rails, and Monty repositioned herself lest any budding Lindberghs or Cartier-Bressons attempt to get a candid shot of a pretty girl with the golden city behind her.

As afternoon turned to evening, Monty found herself deposited back in Fatih/Sultanahmet, just opposite the mosque in front of which she had first boarded Istanbul's trams in pursuit of the accountant. Maintaining her switchback pattern of public transport usage, the cyborg caught the next tram away from the Golden Horn waterfront, riding it two stops before disembarking. Taking a meandering course she walked to the next stop along the line and caught another set of cars back, across the Galata Bridge and into Karakoy. Though the process extended her journey significantly, each interchange allowed Monty to narrow the field of potential pursuers. By the time a very tired cyborg arrived back at the Marmara Pera hotel, she was reasonably confident that no-one had tailed her.

Following the message which had arrived on her phone earlier, which simply read "top side", the girl caught an elevator to the hotel's rooftop bar. In a back corner, amongst carefully sculpted foliage and minimalist white furniture, Monty found her handler. Still dressed in his light grey suit, but with the top button of his shirt undone and the tie loosened, there was one other addition to his outfit...

"If you got that where I _think_ you got that..."

Jethro threw his travelling companion a lopsided grin, "You don't like my fez?"

In reply Monty sighed, squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose, "I just can't leave you without adult supervision _ever_ can I?"

"Look, the store owner wasn't giving in, it seemed faster just to buy the thing... have a drink."

Willing to concede the argument for now on grounds of tiredness, the girl sat down next to her partner and reached for the Negroni cocktail he'd left resting on a low table in front of them. Taking a sip, she judged it passable and slumped against the thick, white throw cushions provided by the bar. Crossing her legs she propped her head up with her free arm, supporting it on the arm of the couch with her chilling glass resting in her lap, and let out a long, tired sigh.

Glancing briefly at her, Jethro stood, "Hold on, I'll be back in a minute."

Monty watched her handler walk off across the softly mood-lit rooftop, keeping an eye on him till he was out of sight. Then she let her gaze wander across the still sparsely populated space, over its glittering infinity pool and out to the spectacular, sparkling vista of night-time Istanbul beyond. The glow of the city was broken only by the dark band of the Golden Horn, and punctuated by brightly lit Mosques, great icebergs in a sea of lights. Not generally one to wax lyrical however, Monty was content just to take in the view and recoup from the rigours of the day.

Soon Jethro returned with a table number and light blanket. Placing the number down, he shook the blanket out and took a seat next to his cyborg. Shifting to get more comfortable, he threw the blanket around both of them to ward off the autumn chill, and drew his diminutive girl in beside himself.

Putting their heads close together he said quietly, "So what did you find?"

Taking another sip of her cocktail, Monty gave her head a subtle shake, "Not a whole lot to be honest. Omurtak was at some sort of private members' club on the Bosphorus waterfront. It was only him and his accountant, and going by the standard of dress being worn, it'd be a reasonable assumption that the accountant was the guest."

Jethro thought for a second before voicing his opinion, "Istanbul doesn't really have a gentlemen's club tradition that I know of. My guess is that it must be a fairly new-money sort..."

"...well it is reasonably handy to Levent and Besiktas," put in Monty, "it could well be meant to service the crowd out of those, or one of the other financial districts close by. I'll have a dig later tonight and see if we can't attach a name to it."

"Food first," returned her handler. "That said, it might be worth putting some thought as to how we're going to make sure we turn up at the same time as Omurtak. Traipsing in and out of the joint without being members could raise some awkward questions."

"Well there is a doorman..."

* * *

><p>Two days later, Monty stood in front of the hotel room's mirror, carefully applying some subtle, strategic shadow to accentuate her naturally heavily lidded eyes.<p>

Acting on her suggestion that the doorman might be a good source from whom to determine Omurtak's movements, Jethro had returned to what they now knew to be the Istanbul Polo Club the previous night. Waiting for one of the porters to finish his shift, the spy had followed him to a small local hookah cafe in the urban Uskudar, directly across the Bosphorus from the club itself. Though the man had turned out to be a devout Muslim and therefore couldn't be plied with alcohol, over a couple of pipes of shisha the Briton had managed to get the information he required. Omurtak was to be found at the club on Monday and Wednesday afternoons as well as Friday evenings and nights.

Finished with her eye-shadow, Monty added a simple, clear lip gloss then picked up a squat, black glass bottle with gold atomizer cap from the table. Giving it a quick shake, she found it almost empty and made a mental note to buy more next time the opportunity arose. While Bvlgari's _Jasmin Noir_ concentrate was not precisely cheap, it was the only scent she used regularly. On that basis the dark, close wearing perfume seemed like a good investment.

Monty pumped the atomizer twice into the air and walked through the ensuing mist, allowing the droplets to settle onto her skin. Taking a moment to enjoy the smell, she turned back to face the mirror and inspect the overall effect. A short, fitted black cocktail dress, with angled hemline and wide white collar, paired up with dark stockings accentuated her slender, long legged figure, while a padded bra and two inch heels did their part to add a more adult edge to her silhouette. She also carried a small, black patent leather clutch containing her PPK and, making the most of the luxury of extra space it afforded, a silencer and spare magazine.

Across the room, Jethro was shrugging on the jacket of a charcoal three-piece suit; the most formal attire he carried without going to black tie. Monty, having skimmed the Polo Club's dress code, had decided that the latter would be overkill and he was inclined to agree. Moving to inspect her handler, the cyborg reached out to do up the top button of his jacket, straightened his tie clip, then tweaked the crimson, single-point folded pocket square which added a flash of colour to the otherwise monochrome ensemble.

"Do I pass muster?"

His companion gave her handler an appraising look, which morphed into a sly smile, "I think so... barely."

Holding up her trench coat so she could slip into it, Jethro gave his cyborg another grin, "Then what say we be about it?"

* * *

><p>The fratello's well-travelled Audi took them up the Bosphorus shoreline into the residential area in which the Polo Club resided. Finding a park a few hundred metres from the building itself so as to avoid having the vehicle associated to them, the Blackers walked on as a couple out to enjoy the early evening air. Ambling up the street side by side, Monty remained close to her handler, keeping a watchful eye out for any lurking danger. This evening had given her extra reason to be on guard as, unsure of club convention regarding the removal of jackets; Jethro had left his sidearm hidden in the car.<p>

Their relaxed stroll eventually brought the pair to the Polo Club's entry. Having been welcomed in by the doorman (a different one to whom Jethro had talked) they were directed to the club concierge's desk. There, Jethro thumbed through his wallet, eventually producing membership to the Royal Over-Seas League as well as a letter of recommendation from the General Secretary of the same, on a now slightly scratty, gilded letterhead.

A holdover from his days in the British Secret Intelligence Service, Jethro's ROSL membership had been quietly expedited by that agency, a practical decision to allow their man some flexibility in his external dealings. As one of London's more progressive clubs it held reciprocal rights to a large number of foreign establishments, across a broad range or disciplines including, seemingly, the Istanbul Polo Club.

Content with Jethro's credentials, the concierge took Monty's coat for her and directed the fratello into the club proper, with instructions to come and see him if they required anything at all.

Open doors from the foyer lead through to a combination of members' lounge and bar; a long, low room taking up the entire rear of the club's bottom floor and furnished in a sumptuous mid-century style. French doors ran the full length of the space, opening out to the terrace on which Monty had spotted Omurtak and his accountant two days previous. Beyond that, across the water, the ancient urban centre of Uskudar was visible. Lit by the setting sun, its soft, reflected light suffused the Polo Club's interior with a warm, golden glow.

Placing a hand on the nape of his girl's neck, Jethro directed her gently toward the bar at one end of the building. This early in the evening the club lounge was quite busy, about two thirds of the small clusters of low set chairs and tables being occupied. About them, the room hummed quietly as the mostly expat crowd wound down from the week, accompanied by low, downbeat bossa nova jazz, played by a suited four piece stationed near the bar itself.

A few patrons gave the two strangers some attention, taking in the new scenery, but most paid them little heed. Keeping his cyborg close beside him, Jethro leaned on the bar's countertop in a position which would allow him a view out onto the terrace.

"A Vesper Martini please, shaken, on Tanqueray Ten," said the SWA's man, hailing the barman, "and a Negroni for the lady on the same."

While the barman produced a Boston style cocktail shaker, filled the steel beaker with ice and started measuring Tanqueray Ten gin into the vessel, Jethro continued to survey the room. He hadn't seen Omurtak on the way in, which suited the fratello's needs just fine. Whether Monty had anything to add he'd need to wait till they'd found somewhere to sit to find out.

A thump of heavy glass being wedged into to the top of the beaker, followed by the rattle of ice, brought the handler's attention back to where his cocktail was being prepared. While he was scanning the room, Monty had kept an eye on the process, making sure nothing got slipped into their drinks.

Leaving the shaker together for the time being, the barman next produced a short glass and filled it with ice. Setting that to chill, he selected an orange from a bowl behind the bar. Pausing to partake in a little showmanship, he flicked the fruit into the air before catching it behind his back and placing it on a cutting board. Working quickly he sliced off a strip of the rind, trimming the edges before giving a lemon similar treatment. Into the short glass went a shot of gin, a shot of sweet vermouth and a shot of Campari which were stirred vigorously and joined by the orange rind.

Extracting a chilled martini glass from the fridge, the barman knocked the heavy tumbler from the top of the cocktail shaker. He then produced a straining whisk, flipping it also in the air and dropping it over the mouth of the metal lower section with a flourish. Using it to hold back the ice, he poured Jethro's drink, finishing it with the lemon rind garnish.

Having left payment on the counter, Jethro picked up his martini and handed Monty the shorter, old fashioned glass with its deep red-orange contents. Setting their sights on an empty group of chairs on the far wall, the pair moved sedately through the club's membership, giving both a good chance to study each face in turn. Most seemed to be in late middle age or older, predominantly male but with the occasional younger man or woman scattered through the mix. Most of the women and girls however seemed to be taking a similar role to the one Monty played: hanging on the arm of one of the club's patrons.

Settling himself into a low, smoothly carved Dansk chair and taking a sip of his Vesper, Jethro leaned over to his cyborg, "I take it you didn't spot Omurtak on the way in either?"

The girl shook her head, "No, but I wouldn't mind getting a better look at the terrace."

"Well finish your drink first. If he's not here yet it doesn't matter, in fact if we're first on the scene it may just work to our advantage."

Seemingly content with that, Monty relaxed back in her seat, letting her eyes rove across the room whilst the music and hum of conversation washed over her. Every so often her keen cyborg hearing would pick up a snippet of one group or another's talk and, if it seemed interesting, she'd follow it along. It was evident from what she heard that most of the people in the club were from the nearby business districts. Talk of shares and bear markets moved to the changing fortunes of different companies through the financial downturn, not that the latter seemed to have unduly effected anyone present. Perhaps they wouldn't be able to afford that second SUV, but the girl hardly saw that as a reason to offer up sympathy. Another group, two sets of chairs across, were discussing shipping trade around the Mediterranean and up through Turkey's straights to the Black Sea area. In memory of the intelligence packet she'd received in Monaco, Monty listened in until the group moved itself to one of the informal chess games taking place out on the terrace.

Lounging in the chair next to hers, Jethro had taken her hand, gently stroking the back of it with his thumb while, like his partner, he let his eyes wander around the room. While he lacked the ability to eavesdrop his companion did, he could still watch the people nearby and how they interacted. Right now, though there was the usual mix of extroverts to wallflowers and those fitting in between, no-one looked like someone consciously undertaking clandestine dealings. That however could just mean that they were professionals who knew what they were doing, but the spy had always felt that there was a chink in anyone's armour: if you looked hard enough.

Eventually, a movement near the door caught his attention and he leaned over to whisper in his girl's ear, "Omurtak's just arrived."

Monty's eyes flicked over to the entrance to the lounge as well. Flashing a small smile in response to her partner for the benefit of anyone watching, she twisted around to bring her own mouth in line with his ear. "You want to go meet him?"

Jethro shook his head slightly, "Not yet, lets allow the man to get comfortable first."

With that the fratello settled in to wait a little longer, watching as Omurtak retrieved a drink from the bar. Powerfully built and bordering on heavy, the man did not need to weave through the crowd as he carried himself out to the same chess game the group with an interest in shipping had gone to watch. Whether consciously or no, those in his path quietly cleared the road.

Soon the current match had wrapped up and the supplier ensconced himself in one of the players' chairs. As the man's own game got underway, Jethro nudged Monty and the pair vacated their current position.

Stopping by the bar again for refills, they made their own way out onto the terrace, joining the small group of spectators around Omurtak's table. Taking up a position so as to be within the native Turk's field of vision, they watched as he proceeded to successfully block his opponent's opening before driving home his own black army's counter offensive on the board. As the game progressed it was rapidly becoming obvious who the superior player was as the white army's parries and ripostes became more frantic and less well thought out, crumbling in the face of the black pieces' onslaught. Eventually, bowing to convention as his position became ever more untenable, Omurtak's competition knocked his own king over, conceding the match.

The two players shook hands over the board.

"Same time again next week?"

"Of course, if you want to try your luck again."

Laughing at what was apparently a running joke, they got up to leave and Jethro stepped forward addressing the victor, "Would you care for another game?"

Stopping to study the man who had spoken, Omurtak motioned to the seat opposite him. "I did not wish to monopolize the board, but if you are offering then I will most certainly accept. What would you prefer: white or black?"

Taking his own place, the handler started to gather up pieces and reset them on the board, "I'll take black."

Omurtak's eyebrows rose slightly at this and he studied his competition with renewed interest. Meanwhile, Monty settled herself on the arm of her handler's chair, resting a slender arm across its back.

"Interesting choice, you would forfeit the first move..."

"The first move is an advantage. However, by playing second, one can learn much from how their opponent opens."

"Perhaps, but personally I prefer to be able to take the initiative from the start, so I shall not fight you for the black."

Pieces in place, Jethro lounged back in his chair and propped up an ankle on his other knee. Taking a sip from his Vesper, he let an arm snake around the girl sitting next to him, resting his hand on her upper thigh, and settled in to wait for the game's first move to be made.

Omurtak studied the board in silence, immobile and with his chin resting on knitted together fingers. Eventually he slid the pawn from in front of his king forward two spaces and immediately removed his finger to signify he'd made his play, then relaxed back into his own chair.

On the opposite side of the table, without relinquishing his handful of cyborg, the SWA's man contemplated the board, thumb absentmindedly stroking his girl's thigh. From her perch on his chair arm, Monty consciously pushed the pleasant sensation from her mind and concentrated on maintaining a sultry, ornamental visage, whilst keeping an eye and ear on the surrounding crowd.

Seemingly coming to a decision, Jethro unknotted himself from his charge and leaned forward to move the black, queenside bishop pawn forward a similar two spaces to his opponent, signalling his willingness to open the fight for the centre of the field.

Omurtak next moved a knight forward, followed by his queenside central pawn which was rapidly lost to Jethro's own black pawn as the Englishman began to draw his pieces into a tight Dragon variation, Sicilian Defence.

As his opposite number started to push his natural line of attack up the game's kingside, the spy leaned into the table's centre as well.

"You're a difficult chap to get a hold of Omur."

The man across the table gave an apologetic smile at that, "Comes with the territory I'm afraid."

"In that case, joining a members' club would almost seem like settling down would it not?"

"A little perhaps, Mr. Blacker, I really should move on but I have grown fond of this establishment. Perhaps I am getting old."

Now it was Jethro's turn to grin, "Ah, so you _do_ remember."

"Your Franklin job was one of the more successful I had a hand in. It pays to remember that, and occasionally remind other customers of it."

'Mr. Blacker' glanced down at the game briefly, weighing his options in light of the most recent tactical development, and moved a bishop forward to aid his own counteroffensive along the board's queenside.

"Well, if you've been happy with my previous work, I may have a potential proposition for you."

Omurtak's eyes flickered up from the black and white pieces in front of him briefly to look at his counterpart opposite again.

"Then let's discuss it later somewhere more private."

Moving another pawn to clear the road for a rook, the Turk leaned back in his seat to await the next development.

As time wore on it became evident to the more attuned of those watching that there were two fairly distinct games taking place on the same board. One was centred around Omar's white, kingside offensive, and the other on Jethro's counterattack down the opposite half of the sixty-four black and white squares. Each player was forced to split his attention between both, and the pieces danced furiously as they attempted to push forward their own gambits whilst parrying against their opponent's.

Slowly however, the Turkish man started to gain the upper hand. His British opposite's more conservative, defence biased opening had been advantageous to his aggressive play style and the current ferocious switching of fronts was only adding to that. Eventually the inevitable came to pass...

"Checkmate."

Shrugging his defeat, Jethro reached forward and pushed over his black king. Then he stood up, offering his hand across the board.

"That was an excellent game, thank you."

Omurtak returned the gesture, "It was. Would you care to join me in the dining room to pick it apart further?"

"We'd be delighted."

Slipping an arm again around Monty, her handler followed the Turk back through the main lounge and into the foyer again. A set of richly carpeted stairs took them to the building's second level and the dining room which occupied its northern end. Acquiring an isolated table for three, a waiter brought menus, then left the little group to its own devices.

"I was not lying when I said that was an excellent game."

Jethro nodded, "The Sicilian has taken some flak in its time, but I still maintain it's a solid opener."

Omurtak looked thoughtful, "I am not sure if I would agree with you entirely. Played well and astutely a Sicilian variant can put black in a good position. However it, like the real Sicily herself, leaves too many holes and leverage points open to strike at more valuable targets."

Taking a sip of the supplied table water he continued, "Also, I find it too much a purely defensive tactic. As we proved today, it gives opportunity for an aggressive opponent to gain the advantage."

The SWA handler nodded again, conceding the point, "Agreed. However, it does open up options down the queenside for black. Either way, it's a good opener against someone you're unfamiliar with regards their style."

"That's right, I do not remember your playing last time we met."

"We didn't. I was too busy at the time to give it much thought, but recently I've been trying to polish my game up a little."

"Which has lead to a lot of less-than-interesting books being bought and conversations being had I can assure you," put in Monty flatly.

The Turk turned his attention to her, "Ah, you are not a fan of the great craft then I take it?"

"Not so much."

"Unfortunately it's a past time wasted on the young," said Jethro, giving his cyborg a sly wink.

Omurtak looked between the two, "Are you not going to introduce me?"

"Where are my manners," said the handler, motioning to his chess opponent. "Monty, this is Omurtak, he supplied us for the Franklin job I was telling you about. Omur, this is Monique. She's my... I guess you could call her my 'understudy', without whom I'd now be lost, so feel free to talk in front of her. Should the worst happen, it will be she who carries on any job."

Monty reached out her hand and, catching Jethro's signal that the girl was to be treated as an equal, the Turk shook it. "Well, while the king is the most important piece on the chess board; it is the queen which gets things done."

_But if you lose the king, then you lose the game._

"If you'll forgive me saying so," he continued, "you seem very young to be carrying such a role."

The girl cocked an eyebrow, "Youth does not beget stupidity or incompetence Mister Omurtak, but merely creates an excuse for those incapable or unwilling to make a contribution."

Leaning back in his chair, the fratello's host ran a more appraising eye over the girl seated opposite him as the table's waiter returned.

In line with the Polo Club's apparent target audience of western expats and Istanbulie new rich, the menu was of a similarly east meets west flavour. Remembering her own, albeit blessedly brief, encounters with the SWA kitchen's attempts at "fusion" cookery, Monty selected something which erred strongly toward a local flavour; a move mimicked by her handler. Having given Omurtak a chance to order as well, Jethro took a minute to study the wine list.

"I think in lieu of this evening's events, it would only be appropriate to have something from Sicily," he said. "A bottle of the Zisola for the table as well please."

"Of course sir."

With the group again alone, Omurtak turned to his opposite male number, "While I realise it's possibly poor form to talk business before dinner, I would like to get some idea of what you are intending Blacker."

The handler sat back to consider this, however it was his partner who spoke up, "You need to be aware that we are still very much in the proof of concept stage right now. The intention here is to acquire a feel for what it may or may not be possible for you to source."

The burly Turk nodded slowly, signalling his understanding as Monty continued, "I'm sure you're aware by now of the job that went off in Monaco recently..."

"I am, in fact I wondered if your Blacker here had anything to do with it."

The Briton let a small, wry, smile crease his features, "Why does everybody seem to assume I had some hand in that? Sadly I did not, however we were hoping to somehow capitalize on its success."

He halted the sentence there as the waiter returned with a bottle and corkscrew. Fighting slightly to get the screw through the hard wax cap on the cork, the man extracted the stopper and handed it to Jethro, who gave it a deep sniff before nodding. Satisfied at his response, the waiter tied a fresh linen napkin around the top of the bottle and, holding it by its base, let a little of the deep red liquid run into his guest's glass.

Picking it up, the SWA man twirled the glass, sniffed at its contents and took a tiny sip, allowing it to rest on his tongue. Finally he nodded again and the waiter tipped the bottle, pouring about an inch of wine across the bottom of the club's wide stemware. He followed suit for the two other occupants of the table before placing the bottle in the middle of them and withdrawing once again.

Jethro nodded at the dark vessel now sitting on the table, "That needs to breathe; I'd leave it for ten minutes."

Leaning forward again he continued, "Back to that Monaco gambit... now that it's gone off, there's got to be a lot of people wondering what was stolen and when it's going to hit the market."

Omurtak however was looking thoughtful, "I think you may have waited a little long on this my friend. Whatever was stolen has surely been disposed of by now."

"Yes and no," started Monty. "We figure there's likely two windows open during which we could believably fence 'goods' from the heist. The first would be the few weeks after the job itself which we have indeed missed. The second would be in the six-month to two year range: when the heat has died down a touch and word of a casino robbery has had time to spread to a wider market. With a little luck, that broader market will let us push our asking prices up as well."

Now the Turk's attention was completely on the girl in front of him, "So what were you hoping to fence?"

Monty gave a small smile and shrug, "That's what we're here to see you for. We need to get a handle on both what resources could be available to us, as well as what's likely to fetch a good price right now; whether it be bonds or diamonds or..."

Jethro reached out and laid a hand lightly on his girl's arm and shook his head halting her. Then he turned to Omurtak.

"Is there somewhere perhaps more private where we could talk specifics? All the ears around here make me nervous."

Stroking the small wisps of greying hair around his temples, the supplier thought about this. "Do you have a hotel we could meet at?"

"We do, but its walls are thin. It'd be nice to find familiar ground, with less unknown faces in the crowd."

There was another lull in the conversation while the group considered its options.

"There is a restaurant in Avcilar which I operate out of at the moment, and most of my regular patrons are known to me," said the fratello's associate cautiously. "I will give you the address, meet me there tomorrow evening."

"We'll be there," nodded Jethro, as he looked over Omurtak's shoulder. "But now I believe: dinner is served."

* * *

><p>It was getting toward midnight by the time the party of three broke up and went its separate ways. Conversation from the arrival of meals onward had remained mostly legal and clean, centring on the political and financial situations through Europe, Asia and Africa.<p>

Spruiking his wares and taking requests from across all three continents, Omurtak had talked animatedly on the topic. Evident was his disappointment that the global financial crisis had not turned into a cataclysm similar to the fall of the Soviet Union, but on a much grander scale, and resulting in a new free-market free-for-all. Nations selling whatever they could to make ends meet, happily supplying those who wished to cut themselves a piece of the world, he saw as the ultimate expression of market forces at work.

"I had arrangements all made up with shipping companies, and Reds in their aircraft ready to haul my cargoes," he had said sadly. "But, there is still hope! A simple business man may find the world smiling on him again yet."

Monty had felt less enthused by the idea, but maintained a convivial and positive outlook through the conversation. Should the West suffer a similar collapse to the USSR, certainly one of the first victims, with its various warring factions, would be Italy, thus nullifying all the SWA's work to date. The only thing that would perhaps prevent its descent into outright chaos would be that, with a lack of natural resources and an industry-based economy, the financial pressures of waging outright war would be untenable. That was not however a theory that the cyborg had any urge to put to the test.

Settling again into her accustomed seat in the Audi, the girl pushed those thoughts aside and turned to her handler, "You realise that one day our role in Monaco is going to get out don't you?"

Jethro nodded, "Of course it will, and when it does, people will wonder why we didn't say anything."

"And the answer?"

"That's for everyone else to bicker over."

Shifting the fratello's car into drive, the handler threw a U-turn, heading back toward the bridge over the Bosphorus. He would make a large loop over to Istanbul's Anatolian shores, before crossing back into Europe with the intention to weed out and throw off any potential pursuit.

Beside him, Monty piped up again, "Would you say we at least got Omurtak interested?"

At that Jethro threw his companion one of his half-grins, "I'd say so, and organized for him to invite us exactly where we want to be."

"Now we just need to make sure we can capitalise on that."

**To Be Continued**


	3. CH03 Long Highway

**AND THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction by Alfisti, based on works by Yu Aida._

* * *

><p><strong>CH03|Long Highway<br>**

Picking its way through the giant lorries which packed the motorway, a dark grey Audi estate travelled steadily toward Avcilar's shoreline. Situated on Istanbul's European Marmara coast, Avcilar had started life as a sleepy fishing village. Ready access to the sea had served as a catalyst for the construction of a port on its shoreline, and subsequent rapid assimilation into Istanbul's expanding city limits. The "greed is good" boom of the 1980s had brought with it massive development, the area's history being all but swept away before the tidal wave of progress. Now it was an area of industry and bustling urbanism, ancient buildings replaced by malls and shining department stores... a kingdom for the upper middle classes.

Extricating itself from the highway's hurtling trucks and their forty-foot shipping containers, the Audi nosed its way into urban streets. In the passenger seat, Monty sat quietly letting the satnav guide her handler on in its emotionless monotone. Wending their way south-west through the neat grid of recent construction, the Blacker fratello searched for the address Omurtak had given them the previous night.

Eventually the restaurant came into view and Jethro allowed the evening commuter traffic to carry their car a few blocks past it before pulling into a side street. Cutting a little further into the residential back laneways, the handler found a parking spot nicely away from prying eyes and mixed in amongst other vehicles of a similar price range. While Avcilar was a more of an industrial satellite centre to Istanbul than anything, its inner city was no less expensive to live in. Stepping out of the car, Monty pulled her trench coat a little tighter around herself to ward off the evening chill, and joined her handler for a meandering walk through the urban backstreets.

Omurtak's restaurant turned out to be a mid-sized affair, full of people from the neighbourhood; predominantly families or groups of friends, with the occasional couple or lone diner scattered here and there. A cacophony of voices bounced around the hard-furnished space, chatter interspersed with the occasional guffaw of laughter or happy squeal of a child, the latter causing Monty to wince visibly. The cyborg was not a great fan of people at the best of times, and children just seemed to carry all the worst traits.

A heavyset and smiling girl, in the all black uniform of restaurants and cafes everywhere, came to greet the fratello, "Do you have a reservation?"

Jethro shook his head, "No, but we've come to try the Chef's Special, the owner said it was very good."

A more serious shadow passed across the girl's face, but it was brief and she rapidly returned to her beaming countenance, "Of course, if you would wait here I won't be a moment."

Turning around she disappeared quickly into back of house and it wasn't long before the doors burst open to reveal Omurtak, wearing a business shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the tie lost in favour of an open collar exposing a mat of thick, black hair. Striding toward the Blackers he opened his arms wide, every inch the genial family restaurant owner.

"My friends!"

The Turk shook Jethro and Monty's hands, before putting an arm around each and guiding them toward the back of the room. As they walked he nattered away about the humdrum happenings of the neighbourhood, before ushering them through the same set of doors he had used to enter. A short walk past the kitchen brought the three to a sparse back office with a heavily secured door, which was closed behind them with a sharp clack of a deadbolt locking shut.

Safely isolated, a change came over Omurtak as he reverted back to the man they had met at the Polo Club the night before. "You must excuse the act, but it is expected by the patronage. Do take a seat, I will not be a minute."

The supplier exited via a separate door to the one leading to the kitchens, and the fratello made themselves comfortable on one of the two facing couches in the middle of the room. Keeping the seats company was a squat table set between them and scarce little else; two more chairs, lifted from the restaurant floor, wedged in opposite corners, and a dark wood credenza with two bottles and some tumblers atop it. There was also a filing cabinet and, Monty suspected, at least one hidden camera. Seemingly this was a room with the sole purpose of meeting clients securely.

Returning before long, Omurtak took a seat opposite the Blackers and placed a thick lever-arch folder on the table. Then he leaned back on the couch, one leg resting on the other and regarded the pair opposite over steepled fingers.

It was Monty however who spoke first, "You keep your records on paper?"

The supplier shrugged, "I am not as young as I used to be, the memory plays tricks and I find this easier than computers. If it needs to be disposed of, well... this is a restaurant: we use gas in the kitchen and accidents happen... So, tell me again what your plan was."

Keeping her face impassive, the girl replied, "Essentially we're looking for items which could be fenced off the back of the recent job that was done in Monaco, anything that might have come out of a vault; so bonds, art… I did a bit of digging around how the Fairmont handles its security and it does allow patrons to store their valuables under lock and key there."

"What we need from you," continued Jethro, picking up from his cyborg, "is some idea of what's hot property at present and what you have available, or could procure."

"We're prepared to pay either in a lump sum, or give you a percentage cut of the profit if we go ahead," added Monty. "Have no doubt about it; we're still very much in the preliminary, proof of concept stage."

Omurtak nodded his understanding slowly, but otherwise said nothing, apparently mulling over the information he had just been given. Finally he sat forward, looking between the two people across from him.

"I can tell you now I prefer the security of a lump sum payment. Sometimes I will take a royalty but, and I mean no offence by this, though your reputation is good Blacker, and your last job I was involved with went well, our one-on-one history is not extensive. You Monique, though I have so far seen nothing to concern me, I have no personal experience with at all."

Jethro risked a quick glance sideways at his partner. Though her face remained impassive as she held Omurtak's gaze, he knew the last comment would have to have stung for the proud girl.

"However, I am happy to sit down with you for an hour or two to help flesh out some details. This..." he reached forward to tap the file on the table, "...is a list of what I can currently access on short notice…"

His voice trailed off as another thought apparently crossed his mind, "I am curious however: how did you find me? My front-men normally inform me if someone is coming to visit and I know I've changed offices since we last worked together."

Jethro grinned, "Trade secrets there mate. We may not be locals but that doesn't mean we're devoid of contacts."

Omurtak didn't seem particularly pleased by that, holding eye contact as if waiting for him to continue. Monty however reached forward to take the lever-arch file. "May I?"

Shaking himself the supplier nodded, "Of course, that is what it's here for."

Opening the folder to its first page, the three people clustered around to look and Jethro's eyebrows rose.

"Isn't that…"

Omurtak nodded, "The press from your Franklin job yes. Your compatriots were going to break it down, which seemed like a waste. I made them an offer and they took it."

Jethro gave an internal grimace, there had been good reason that he'd wanted that press broken down and scrapped; it was large, heavy, impossible to move in a hurry and easily recognizable to anyone who knew remotely what they were looking at. Seemingly Rade and the other members of the crew had just seen a way to increase their margin. In light of that, the forger was thankful he had taken and destroyed his printing plates, but if the press was still around it might go some way to explaining how someone else was producing Franklins.

Not saying anything more however, the handler turned his attention back to the folder that Monty and their supplier were now studying, throwing ideas back and forward. Every so often Jethro would add another comment to the mix, but slowly he withdrew from the conversation. After twenty minutes or so he was fairly certain Omurtak had all but forgotten his presence, engrossed as he was talking to Monty across the information file.

Standing the handler asked, "Is there a loo around here?"

Omur grunted, pointing without looking up, "Through the rear door, last room on your left."

Nodding his thanks, Jethro departed through the entrance the supplier had used to retrieve the folder he and Monty were now poring over. The former British agent found himself in a short, dark corridor, lit by a single naked light bulb and with three doors leading into it, the further of which was assumedly the toilet. Pulling on a set of thin leather gloves he inspected first door on the left, checking for any tell tails and, finding none, tried the handle. Unlocked, it yielded to his grasp and swung open to reveal a small room with made-up cot, bar fridge, set of three hanging lockers and a sink with toothbrush and shaving gear next to it. Seemingly Omurtak didn't always make it home from work.

Closing up the bedroom again he made a similar inspection on the right-side door … locked. That was a good sign. The lock itself was new, but a relatively simple dual-array, pin-tumbler type designed to take a u-shaped key. Omurtak apparently felt his outer security adequate enough to keep undesirables out. Extracting his own set of lock picks the SWA man got to work, and soon the door swung open like its twin across the hall.

Checking his watch, Jethro closed the door again behind himself. The brown Linde Werdelin's hands had barely moved: it had taken a little less than three minutes to get from the meeting room to where he stood now. Still, time wasn't on the handler's side… there was only so much a case of Deli Belly could explain away.

This room, in contrast to its Spartan brethren, was crammed full of shelving, files and papers. Set against one wall was a desk with a computer on it, situated so that its user would face the door, and next to the desk a three-in-one scanner/photocopier/laser printer.

Jethro moved quickly around to the front of the computer and twitched the mouse to bring the log-on screen up. Glancing toward the door briefly he noticed a small black and white television set above the frame and smiled; displayed on it sat Monty and Omurtak, still studying the tabled folder. From one cufflink he unplugged a tiny USB drive and inserted it into one of the PC's front ports. Once connected, its AISE standard issue code breaking software started running automatically.

Leaving it to work, Jethro moved to the shelves surrounding the room. Leaning closer he inspected one of the cheap, uniform grey folders: the spine carried a date, but otherwise only displayed a sequence of numbers to help indentify it. Pulling files out randomly, the spy started flicking through the papers to get a handle on what each contained.

One series of folders was documentation for the legitimate restaurant itself and were quickly written off along with another full of staff payrolls. Others were more interesting: contact details for different countries, transport receipt documents, some correspondence. It was enough data to keep any analyst happy for months. Unfortunately, Jethro didn't have months, he had minutes. Checking his watch again, the handler moved back to the computer screen and swore quietly under his breath. The software was still running, and previous experience said that if it hadn't broken in after two or three minutes it was going to take a while longer.

_Time for plan B then._

Removing the USB drive, Jethro hid it back in his cuff and started sorting rapidly through the shelves around him. If Omurtak had supplied the ink for the forged notes in Nick's wallet, and if he still had the machinery from the previous forgery job, then it was highly likely he had combined them into one package. Having run the production end of the Franklin job himself, the handler had a reasonable idea of how long set up of the presses required; then run a test batch, make adjustments, test again and print actual currency. Adding the two weeks or so those bills had been out of the press when the Blacker fratello had discovered them gave him a reasonable idea of what range of dates he should be looking around.

Opening any folder that captured that time period its spine, Jethro finally located what he was looking for. Grabbing the manifests for one extra week either side of his assumed date range, the handler dumped them on top of the photocopier and hit "start", silently urging the machine to hurry up.

* * *

><p>In the outer room, Monty and Omurtak had come to the end of their lever-arch folder. Sitting back and scratching his chin, the supplier eyed the girl seated across from him. She was certainly attractive, in a skinny sort of way, and while perhaps lacking in experience, he was yet to see anything which would characterise her as anything less than mature and highly intelligent.<p>

Feeling the Turk's gaze on her, Monty crossed one leg over the other and leant forward with her elbow resting on the higher knee. Settling her head onto the knuckles of the supported arm, the cyborg returned his gaze with cool, heavy-lidded eyes and cocked an eyebrow.

"So where to next, I think it would do well to make another pass at this one," she said, reaching out with her free hand to tap the folder on the table.

Omurtak nodded, "Perhaps if I took a look at some of my recent manifests it might help get a better handle on what the market likes right now."

He started to rise from his seat and Monty's mind raced; Jethro wasn't back yet and she certainly couldn't let the Turk walk in on him. There were ways of keeping the man silent if all else failed of course, but they all required significantly more effort than preventing him from finding anything amiss in the first place.

"Actually there are a few items here I would like to go over with you quickly," she flicked rapidly through the folder searching for a likely candidate. "What would we be looking at... for example... to set up to do a run of corporate bonds... lead time wise. I imagine the smaller, single sheet presses would be easier to source?"

Hand still on the doorknob Omurtak paused momentarily, "Whose bonds were you thinking of forging?"

Monty considered that for a second, buying more time, "Honestly, Jethro's the better one to talk to about the who and how... but fitting in around the casino scenario, a European corporation would be a good start. France, Spain, Germany, Switzerland... even perhaps someone out of Northern Italy, I don't think it would be unfeasible for one of the higher rollers to be using those assets as security."

"A smaller run of higher-value documents would certainly cut room for error... let me go check what's selling well right now."

With that he swung the door full open, just as the sound of a cistern being emptied filled the corridor. Thirty seconds later, Jethro emerged from the toilet door.

"What did I miss?"

Monty turned to him as he sat down beside her again and gave his companion's knee an encouraging squeeze. "We were just going over the possibility of doing a short run of corporate bonds."

Slipping effortlessly between spy and crook mode, the handler nodded, "It'd certainly be a thought, and the little presses give better control over plate pressure. However, I can think of some options which may be an easier sell. Give that here."

Reaching over he lifted the folder off his girl's lap and started to read through it himself, Monty pointing out items of interest that she and Omurtak had isolated from the list. Occasionally, the Turk threw his own observations and suggestions in amongst those of his two guests, sometimes referring to the second file he had retrieved.

With each turned page, Monty committed more of the folder's contents to memory. As soon as she got back to the hotel she would type it all out, before deciding what the Agency did and didn't need to know about, and what it should only be informed of with some appropriate spin attached. What she certainly _didn't_ want was somebody jumping the gun and a couple of cyborg storm troopers being dropped on the head of a potential source of information. While Monty would admit the other cyborgs were deadly combatants, she considered them chainsaws to the scalpel of intelligence work, and would certainly be perfectly happy if none of them came anywhere near where she was operating. Otherwise, the information from the folder would be useful should she and her partner come across any of its contents during future travels.

Closing the lever-arch file, Jethro placed it back on the table. "Well there are some definite possibilities in there. However, for once we're not particularly time constrained so I'd like to make use of that luxury and do some more digging."

Standing up he brushed down his suit and offered a hand to Omurtak, "Still, thank you for your time, sorry to have intruded."

"Of course," said the Turk, also standing and shaking the proffered limb. "People always seem to forget that the black market is still a market, it never hurts to provide a little customer service."

"Carrot and stick?"

"Perhaps."

Turning, he extended his hand to Monty, engulfing her slender fingers in one massive paw, "And best of luck to you Ms. Monique. If everything goes well I hope we may have the opportunity to work together."

The girl offered him a small smile and a subtle nod of the head in return but said nothing.

Taking one fratello member under each arm and returning to his restaurateur persona, Omurtak ushered them again toward the establishment's floor. However, before leaving back of house he fixed Jethro with a questioning look.

"You certainly took your time before, I thought you may have... how do you say... 'fallen in'?"

If the handler was surprised by the sudden change of tack, he didn't show it, instead offering a sad shake of his head and a wry smile. "Something I ate really hasn't been agreeing with me. Ironic: we travel all over Europe and the Middle East eating with the locals, and it's in one of the most civilised cities on earth that I get poisoned."

The native Istanbulie laughed out loud at that, "Well, if that is your problem you should stay for dinner here! The food is not fancy but it is good, I guarantee it!"

Monty shot her handler a sharp glance but he didn't need it, "As much as I'd love to, we really must be going. Work to do I'm afraid."

With that they made their final farewells and strolled out into the night.

Once safely returned to the backstreets, Jethro pulled his cyborg close up beside him and said quietly, "What do you think that last bit was about?"

"I don't know," growled the girl under her breath, "but it didn't sit right."

"Agreed. I think we may give Mr. Omurtak there a bit of space for awhile."

* * *

><p>Back on the road, Jethro reached into his suit jacket inside pocket and removed a slender sheaf of photocopied papers which were handed to his cyborg. Scanning quickly down the columns of tiny text, she flipped the first sheet over then looked at her handler from the passenger seat.<p>

"I note there're no names on this, only identifier codes."

"His folders were set up like that as well, codes only. However dates and the like were still in plain text," Jethro flicked his head toward where his girl had the pages in her hands, "with some luck those will be the same."

Monty studied the page a little closer, "Looks like they might be actually and... what I assume are drop locations... don't seem to be coded either... Guess security took a bit of a back seat to expediency there."

"Omur handles a lot of product, if there's really been that much going through his books at once he couldn't afford to be trying to decode his own data each time."

"It's a pity you couldn't find some sort of legend too."

"Sorry, but I was running short on time... thanks for the save by the way," returned Jethro dryly, then pausing slightly he shrugged. "Besides, for all we know he just keeps that in his head. The man's not stupid after all."

All he got was a quiet "hmph" in reply as this partner continued to read through the new information she had been given. Eventually she reached the final sheet and passed the sheaf of paper back to her handler for safe keeping, lacking as she was at the moment a jacket of her own to stow it in.

"I'd need to take a proper look through to be sure," she started, "but there _did_ appear to be some recurring identifiers, and certainly some recurring delivery points... no destinations though."

"That latter's not exactly shocking," replied Jethro. "The IDs could well be repeat or regular customers too."

Monty shrugged, "It'd certainly be a possibility. Come to think of it: the chap who got trounced at chess mentioned something about 'same time next week'."

"Did he now? Well that's interesting... normally if you got done over that badly you wouldn't be going back for seconds... not unless you were being taught of course, and I didn't see our supplier friend offering any pointers."

"Think it might be worthwhile finding out who the player is?"

"It'd certainly be nice to put a face or name to one of those numbers..."

The cyborg nodded, then reached over and tapped her handler's suit jacket where the pages were hidden again, "Either way, I'll start putting those into a spreadsheet back at the hotel, see if we can't pull some patterns out of all that mess."

* * *

><p>Six days later, Jethro eyed the entrance to the Istanbul Polo Club carefully from where he was parked, a hundred meters or so from the establishment. Occasionally he'd use the fratello's binoculars to get a better look at someone entering or leaving.<p>

Having to manually lift data off their stolen manifest, it had taken Monty a good half day to dump the information into excel. However, from there, things had moved somewhat faster. Creating a set of pivot tables she had been able to rapidly extract which identifier numbers Omurtak was having the most dealings with, weights being shipped and on what dates shipments were taking place. Perhaps most usefully at this particular stage, she had also extracted which drop points were seeing the most action. A few of those within the city limits had now been visited, but so far yielded nothing of interest; not entirely surprising as the information was now a couple of months old.

The next most used drop point on the list however was somewhat further afield, a bare set of GPS co-ordinates, high on the plateau and mountains to the east. Being in the harsh and sparsely populated Eastern Anatolian region, the hope was it wouldn't have been shifted as readily and may still be in use. It was also a long way from Istanbul, and before heading for the highlands it would be nice to see if Omurtak's mysterious chess partner could give a separate, more localised, path to pursue.

On the assumption that the fratello may be in for a bit of a wait, Monty had brought her computer with her, working away in the passengers' seat. Beside her, Jethro raised the binoculars to his eyes again and, keeping them level with one hand, used the other to tap his cyborg on the shoulder.

"Hey, eyes up. That looks like our chess player walking in now."

Glancing up from her computer screen, Monty reached into the Audi's back seat and withdrew a high quality Canon 1D camera, fitted with a powerful telephoto lens. Pointing it at the man walking toward the Polo Club's entrance, she waited for him to turn his face toward where they were parked. While her augmented vision could certainly distinguish facial features from this distance, the lens's superb optics gave her extra magnification on her target and the cyborg didn't see any reason to pass up the advantage that offered.

In her viewfinder the man turned to tip the doorman and Monty depressed the shutter, snapping off a rapid string of photos on what once would have once been referred to as "motor drive". For now though, the girl had seen all she needed.

"That's him."

"Good," replied her handler. "Guess we may as well get comfortable."

Taking the binoculars back, the cyborg passed over the camera so her partner could inspect the pictures for himself. Content with the result, he flicked it off and replaced it on the rear seat.

"At least that saves us needing to go in and ask around... I really did not feel like tempting fate by running into Omurtak again."

"Hmm."

Resting her head on her hand, Monty continued to stare out the car's windscreen. Jethro had positioned them in a side street; right on the intersection of it and the main waterfront boulevard. The Audi's prow sat just far enough forward to give the fratello a good view to the club down the road whilst the rest of the vehicle was obscured by the bulk of the building on the corner. Should needs require, it would be easy enough to quietly skulk back out of sight.

Time passed.

Without changing position, Monty finally asked, "How long do you think we'll be in the highlands: a week? Longer?"

Jethro nodded and lifted the binoculars off his cyborg's lap, signalling he'd take over the watch for a bit. "I'd give it at least a week."

"So it'd probably be worth checking ourselves out of the hotel then," stated his cyborg.

The handler nodded again, "Certainly; I don't mind keeping the room if it's only for a few days, a hotel booking makes a decent alibi, but the staff start to gossip if they don't see anyone for too much longer than that."

"The staff _always_ gossip."

"Different sort of gossip..."

His voice trailed off and he lifted the binoculars back to his eyes, "Now that's interesting."

"What's interesting..."

Jethro passed the binoculars back to Monty so she could get a better look, and motioned to the club's entrance, "There, just leaving now."

The cyborg took a moment to study the man exiting the Polo Club.

"Isn't that..."

"It's Rade."

Wanting to be certain, the girl peered through the expensive optics again. Sure enough, Rade Janovich, Jethro's ex-partner in crime and entrepreneur of all things winged and Russian was now walking down the water side of the street toward where the fratello was parked.

"Thoughts?"

"If he's just walked out of there I'd prefer if he didn't see us, but I doubt we'll be able to back up without drawing extra attention to ourselves right now; particularly as he's seen this car before."

Mind whirring, Monty quickly came to a decision, and reached behind her handler to grab the car's folding windscreen reflector. "Here, give me a hand with this."

Seeing where she was headed, her partner helped unfold the insulated shield and wedge it into place behind the car's sun visors and rear-view mirror. "Good thinking Ninety-nine."

As long as Rade didn't cross the street, the Audi's darkly tinted windows should prevent him from seeing through them, whilst the reflector, ubiquitous in its use, blocked the untinted windscreen. Unfortunately, it also ruined the fratello's view out.

Sitting behind her makeshift cover, Monty growled quietly, "If he was at the club, then I think your mate may have been lying about falling out of contact with Omurtak."

Jethro had been pithy to the same thought. Though not completely implausible in its choice, the Istanbul Polo Club was a reasonable distance from Rade's home in Kadikoy; if he was present there rather than joining a more local establishment, then it would suggest some motive beyond simply wanting a decent place to relax and network.

By now Janovich had disappeared from view behind the reflector, and both fratello members waited with baited breath to see if he would re-appear on the other side.

Keeping her voice low, the cyborg continued, "Bets on his having a meeting with our supplier?"

"I think that's got pretty good odds," noted her handler in a similarly muted tone, "and if our chess player leaves within the next half hour or so I'd be pretty confident in saying that they were all having a nice chat together."

Monty didn't answer that, instead mulling the implications over in her mind: if Rade were actually in cahoots with Omurtak, then investigating more remote drop points had just been bumped up her "things to do list" by a significant margin.

By now however, the Yugoslav had appeared back in the cyborg's field of vision. He continued off down the street, and both fratello members breathed a slight sigh of relief. It wasn't a complete sigh, as there was still a possibility that Janovich may have recognized the car and would be returning with reinforcements or worse: informing Omurtak, but for now they could count a small win.

Bundling up the windscreen reflector again, Jethro started, "I say we give it another half hour. If our chess rookie hasn't appeared by then we leave, check our next port of call and come back later."

"Agreed."

Fortunately for the fratello, half an hour after Rade had left, their chess player appeared.

"Timing," noted Monty flatly.

"Don't whinge, he just made our lives easier," put in Jethro. "I'll keep an eye on him, you keep an eye out for anyone returning the favour."

In front of the club, Omurtak's previous chess partner had stopped to fiddle with his mobile phone then, seemingly having undertaken whatever task it was he needed to, started down the street in the same direction Rade had gone. Still with about fifty metres between himself and the waiting fratello however, he cut out onto the road and crossed to one of the cars parked on the curb.

Not wanting to distract his cyborg from her own task, Jethro grimaced quietly at this but said nothing. Now on the same side of the street as the Blackers, whatever car the chess player had gotten into was obscured by the other vehicles positioned along the footpath. It wasn't long however before a dark green Mk4 VW Golf pulled out into the waterfront boulevard from about the point the SWA man figured his mark had vanished to.

As the mid-size hatch trundled down the street towards the waiting Audi estate, the handler turned to Monty, "We still good?"

"All clear as far as I can see Guv."

"_Right._"

Waiting for the VW to travel past and put a few cars between itself and him, Jethro pulled smoothly out into the traffic.

The fratello tailed their quarry south, along the western shore of the Strait and under the Bosphorus Bridge, before turning uphill and inland toward the metro station Monty had disembarked from the day she'd first arrived at the Polo Club. Before they reached it however, the green Golf turned onto the main motorway, accelerating west. Once in the fast moving traffic, Jethro allowed his car to drop back further and flicked on its daytime running lights to help give the appearance of a different vehicle.

The asphalt carried pursuer and pursued vaguely westward, dipping south to cross the Golden Horn waterway at Halic Bridge, before climbing again to get on its original course, and slowly Istanbul's dense city centre started to give way to the less built up outer European suburbs. In the same manner, the traffic on the motorway started to thin out and Jethro was forced to fall even further back, far enough that it was starting to get difficult to keep his target in view.

"Monty," he started, not looking away from the road, "have you seen anything suspicious since we left?"

"No, nothing."

"Good, because I need your eyes."

Turning her attention to the cars ahead of her, the cyborg quickly found the hatchback they were following. "Ok, got him. He's in the right lane and still… no, wait, he's turning off, catch him."

Uttering something foul under his breath, her handler squeezed the throttle further open and the V6 diesel's massive torque thrust the Audi down the tarmac. Killing the running lights he cut across the front of a lumbering semitrailer into the exit slip lane and flew toward the off-ramp. Jethro lifted slightly to seat the estate's nose and turned in, holding an even throttle to the corner's apex, then nailed the accelerator to slingshot his all wheel drive vehicle through of the curve, all four wheels scrabbling for traction in an effort to catch the Golf before it disappeared down a new course.

Ahead now he could see the VW merging into a new stretch of motorway. Slowing down to legal speeds again, the handler made his own, much more sedate entrance, pulling in behind a truck hauling one of the ubiquitous forty foot shipping containers. Behind, another truck was towing a similar load and it only took one road sign for Jethro's suspicions to be confirmed: they were on the road to the port at Avcilar, the same road they'd used to get to Omurtak's restaurant the week previous.

Monty, seemingly, had come to the same conclusion and stated dryly, "I'm going to hazard a guess here and say our friend has something to do with shipping."

"I'm willing to say that's pretty safe bet."

Now however, the cyborg looked thoughtful, "That said, if the freight port and Omurtak's restaurant are both on this side of town; why go all the way to the Polo Club to meet?"

Still keeping an eye on the Golf ahead, Jethro shrugged, "Maybe Omurtak doesn't trust this bloke yet, or wants to limit his exposure here? The restaurant is probably a more permanent fixture, or at least will have a longer useable life, than the club will. It does make pretty good cover; I'll wager it's got a hardstand area out the back with a couple of Omur's own containers. The restaurant itself explains deliveries at all hours... and you're that close to the port that trucks rumbling by with TEUs onboard is most certainly not an uncommon sight."

Monty gave her own shrug in reply, "Makes sense… he's turning again."

Entering Avcilar's centre, the traffic density had picked up again and Jethro was able to close on his quarry without recourse to high-speed antics. Turning off the main drag, they pulled into an industrial park and Monty reached over to the back seat again to ready her Canon. Twisting and turning through the darkening streets, the supplier's weekly chess partner finally pulled up in front of a small, two story warehouse with an office front and large hardstand area out the back. Sparing a glance through the chain wire fence, the cyborg could make out, motionless behind the building, two container lifters and the prow of a Franna style yard crane just poking out from behind precast concrete walls.

Seeing where the Golf had pulled up, Jethro turned quickly into another side-road and stopped once he was sure of being obscured from view. Monty was out the passenger door almost before the car had come to a halt, and racing back to the corner with her camera.

Once there she leaned cautiously around and let off a burst of photos of the chess player letting himself into the warehouse, then zoomed out slightly to get a picture of the building as a whole and another of its sign "Hermes Freight Forwarders". A minute later the office light flickered to life. Through her viewfinder, the cyborg watched as her quarry sat down at a computer and snapped another series of shots. SD cars were cheap and she saw no reason not to use the extra storage.

Withdrawing back into shadow, she considered jumping the fence to investigate the yard behind the warehouse. However, with the evening getting on it was likely that security would be around shortly, and it would _not_ do to get caught poking around after hours by some two bit rent-a-cop. With that in mind, potential risk outweighed the potential reward… at least at this particular juncture. Perhaps at a later date, with more time to reconnoitre, checking out the yard would be a better proposition; but for now she needed to get back to her handler and have him get their vehicle clear.

Slinking to the car, Monty climbed inside and immediately Jethro pulled away, escaping back into the twilight.

Once feeling a bit more secure about their situation, he turned to his girl, "So, what was it?"

"Freight forwarders," she replied. "That actually makes sense: the crowd sat near us at the club were all talking shipping. I'll see what I can't dig up on the company when we get back to the hotel."

"And the name?"

"Hermes."

Jethro gave humourless chuckle, "The messenger God… Also God of boundaries and those who cross them, thieves, weights and measures and commerce in general; if they're mixed up with Omurtak that's surprisingly fitting."

* * *

><p>"Ms. Archer? There is a package for you; if you will just wait here a minute?"<p>

The fratello halted in the middle of the Marmara Pera's lobby as the concierge retreated into a back room. Monty glanced quickly at her handler, but the man returned shortly with a small, stout and well sealed cardboard box. Receiving it across the stone counter, the cyborg signed for it in her guise as 'Ms. Archer'.

"Thank you," looking thoughtful for a second the girl continued. "Also, we'll be needing to make an early start tomorrow. Would it be best to organize checkout now or will there be someone on the desk in the morning?"

The concierge smiled, "If you wish to check out now that is okay and hand the keys in before you leave, but the front desk is open 24 hours."

Monty shared a quick look with her handler, "If you want to take this up to the room, I might sort things out down here. It'll just be one less thing to deal with tomorrow."

Nodding, Jethro took the box from her and headed for the lift with no argument. Checking out early made sense; while his cyborg had not been lying when she said it would be one less thing to do in the morning, it would also make it more difficult for any interested parties to nail down exactly what time they had left Istanbul.

On that last front he considered, it may be worthwhile changing the car's plates again sometime in the near future. Upon entering Turkey, the car's Egyptian registration had been exchanged for Turkish, but one of the other European nations would also be appropriate. While the fratello didn't carry vehicle identification for every country it visited, they did make a point of having a set for somewhere in each general region; preferably those of a nation friendly with its neighbours.

Reaching their shared room, Jethro confirmed that Monty's strand of hair was still in place and, letting himself in, dropped his girl's package next to her computer on the small table. Then he ferreted around under the bed to withdraw the suitcase they were using and started filling it from the hotel's cupboard and drawers. Not that packing would take that much time, after so long on the road the fratello had the process down to a fine art, but anything that could help make an early start smoother seemed like a good idea.

He was just folding the last of Monty's underwear into the battered Globe Trotter case when a coded knock at the door signalled the girl's arrival, followed by the sound of the electric lock withdrawing.

"How'd you go?" he asked as she entered.

"Easy," replied the cyborg as she closed the door behind her. "The concierge said we could just leave the keys in the room as well."

Monty opened up her laptop, then picked the box up and inspected it closely for any signs of tampering. Seemingly content, she removed a slender folding knife from her pocket and, flicking the blade open with one hand, quickly slit the heavy paper packing tape which held the cardboard flaps closed. Stowing the knife again, she extracted a cheap portable hard drive from the loose foam pellets inside, and plugged it into the Macbook Pro to transfer its contents across.

"Ferro wasn't wrong when she said there was too much here to send across the net," commented the girl.

Walking over to join her, Jethro leaned on one of the two chairs.

"Guess may just be worth the twenty-five thousand Euro we paid for it," he said, shooting his cyborg a teasing half grin.

Locked into the Fairmont Casino's vault, and scant seconds away from the Alboreto fratello blowing a hole in the wall to let her out again, Monty had made the executive decision to take a hard disk drive she'd found over a wad of €500 notes, gambling that the data contained would be the more valuable commodity. When the SWA standard issue code breaking software on the Pagani fratello's computers had been unable to access the drive, it had been sent back to the Agency for the tech experts there to have a shot at. While the Blackers carried a more comprehensive cipher suite than most fratelli, the potential difficulty in sending the HDD back after parting company with the other two teams had they _not_ been able to break it, had driven the decision to give it directly to more experienced and capable hands.

Monty eyed the screen sourly, "Large files almost worry me more than small ones. Straight data doesn't take up much space, especially of the sort that would be associated with a money laundering operation."

Getting up off his perch, the handler moved to put a gentle hand on his girl's shoulder, "Fear not, it'll probably just be buried in somebody's porn collection."

The cyborg looked up to give her partner a withering and obviously unimpressed glare, which she held for a few seconds, "I should hope _not_. Besides which you, I think, should be headed for bed."

Jethro released the girl and stood back, "Your words not mine... but shower and sleep _were _on the cards too."

"Then hop to it."

On the screen, Monty's file transfer completed and she booted up the computer's decryption software. As it started to run she unplugged the portable drive and slipped it into a side pocket of her duffle for later disposal. Accessing a different folder, the cyborg opened up Omurtak's manifest to review whilst the decryption algorithm for the Monaco drive's postage date went about its business.

Running a filter on the spread sheet for entries relating to the fratello's next destination, Monty started to go through its line items. Many of the tonnages for deliveries were quite high, making her suspect that this was not so much a drop as some sort of transit point at which goods became somebody else's responsibility. Feasibly that could mean anything from a simple patch of earth, all the way up to a port... though the inland location probably precluded the latter.

Running through the data again, something caught the cyborg's eye, "Hey Guv, come and take a look at this…"

Still drying his hair off, Jethro exited the bathroom with a second towel wrapped around his waist to protect his dignity, and leaned over Monty's shoulder to look at where she was pointing on the monitor. There were two entries there, both on the same date; one small, less than a hundred kilograms and the other significantly larger.

"Seems odd."

"It does," replied his girl. "Omurtak's standard procedure appears to be to even volumes and weights of his shipments out over a couple of containers or pallets. So this would need to be for something small and something large or awkward that couldn't be broken down."

Jethro stood up straight again and gave his girl a sly look, "Like a parcel of ink and a printing press? That larger tonnage would be about the right weight for our gear from the Franklin job. I know we had a devil of a time moving it around, needed a crane to unload off'f the truck. Being in the middle of nowhere would certainly help with that… scroll across to the dates?"

Monty obliged and her handler looked closely again, pulling a slight grimace, "It's on the early end of what I'd expect for producing those notes in Nick's wallet..."

"Could be our forgers were new to the game and needed a few cracks," put in Monty.

"...but I think checking out that set of co-ordinates just jumped up our list of priorities again."

The cyborg nodded curtly, "Agreed… and now: bed."

* * *

><p>It was still dark when the Blacker fratello arrived at their squirreled away Audi the next morning. Leaving the hotel, its lobby had been populated by few other early risers; only those with planes to catch or coaches to be on; and none of whom seemed particularly interested in two more unfortunate travellers awake at some ungodly hour.<p>

Wrapped up against the early morning cold, Monty stowed their luggage in the boot, then extracted the portable drive Ferro had sent from her own duffle. Motioning for her handler to pop the car's bonnet, the girl reached inside the engine bay as he started the vehicle. Placing the plastic casing against the alternator, she let the powerful magnets inside wipe the drive of data and scramble what was left into an unreadable mess.

Closing the bonnet again, Monty walked out of the parking garage and into a side alley. Quickly checking the area to make sure no-one was looking on, she stepped heavily on the drive to crush it and ground the platter into the pavement with her shoe for good measure; there was no point in taking chances. Satisfied, the girl carefully collected all the pieces of shattered casing and electronics to dump them in two separate bins in the alley. That last was a calculated risk; if anyone was interested enough to go pulling HDD fragments out of the bin then it was a fair bet they were also aware the fratello was in Istanbul by now. The way Monty saw it; if that were the case then there was no reason to lay a trail any further than the city's limits.

Returning to the now idling Audi, the cyborg stripped off her warm, double breasted greatcoat and laid it on the back seat, before moving rapidly into her place in the front of the car's thawing interior.

From the driver's seat, Jethro looked over, "Done?"

"Done."

Shifting into drive, he pulled out of the parking garage and turned west, headed for the Galata Bridge, away from Istanbul's Asian shores. Using the old city's winding streets which they'd been treading only the week before, and the car's reasonably compact dimensions to his advantage, the spy cut a complex, meandering course which looped slowly back toward the north east. As they drove his cyborg kept a sharp eye on her wing mirror, searching the road behind for anyone who may be following, the narrow alleys giving an excellent chance to weed out potential pursuers.

Still on the European side, the fratello pulled into a bakery to buy breakfast, coffee and have an argument over where they were going. With a paper map spread on the bonnet and coffees holding it down the debate slowly got more heated while those in the street either watched on in amusement, or pointedly ignored the fighting couple.

"I'm telling you its back _that_ way!"

"Bollocks it is!" returned Jethro, thrusting his finger the opposite direction to where his cyborg was pointing. "Look we go down _there_, then _left_ and..."

Eventually the disagreement came to a head and the man wrenched open his door.

"Just get in the bloody car!"

Still looking furious Monty threw herself back into the passenger seat and slammed the door ferociously, just as Jethro floored the accelerator, disappearing up the street leaving a puff of black diesel smoke hanging in the air behind them.

Securing her lidded coffee, Monty twisted the rear view mirror around to give herself a better look at the road behind. With a little luck, no-one would be able to follow them discreetly after that takeoff.

Starting work on a pastry, fished from one of the paper bags they'd acquired at the bakery she turned to her handler, "You know what? We may actually be clear."

Adjusting the mirror back to its original position, Jethro settled back to a more sedate pace as he pulled out of the next intersection. Reaching across the centre console, he gave his cyborg's knee a reassuring squeeze, "That's a nice thought, but keep an eye out till we've left the city proper."

Their convoluted circuit of the European side of the city eventually carried the fratello back across the northern edge of Beşiktaş to the shores of the Bosphorus. Saying goodbye to the Continent for a final time, the more northern of Istanbul's two great suspension bridges, deposited the Blackers on Anatolian shores.

Removing themselves from the motorway once more, Jethro directed the car instead into Istanbul's urban streets, working steadily south east until they hit one of the major arterial roads heading out into Western Asia itself. Though still staying clear of the major routes, the journey started to progress faster now along the smooth asphalt. Gradually, the dense bustle of the metropolis started to melt away, giving over to rolling hills covered with fields and conifer forests, with the occasional farmhouse or car headed the other direction the only signs of life along the undulating tarmac. An hour later, not even Monty's sharp eyes had seen another vehicle on their side of the road and she felt like they could finally start to relax into their journey.

Now seemingly free of pursuers, the fratello continued through Turkey's picturesque countryside, cutting a course through its less populous northern regions. Taking advantage of the lonely, open tarmac, Jethro flicked on the Audi's cruise to give his right foot a break as the miles rolled away under their tyres.

Remaining well clear the Black Sea coastline and its resorts, it was mid-afternoon by the time the Blackers drew abreast of the capital city of Ankara. From there the pair changed tack, veering south to wend their way slowly inland as the road carried them deeper into the Asian continent. Soon they began to climb; the smooth, undulating country of the low lands becoming more hilled and rugged as the grey Audi ascended onto the Central Anatolian Plateau. As the road became more challenging, Jethro dropped the car's gearbox into manual, using the diesel's torque to make swift, smooth progress rather than letting it shuffle up and down ratios by itself, and allowed himself fall into a rhythm from corner to corner.

With extra involvement though came extra concentration, and as night started to fall he pulled into a small farmhouse with a "bed and breakfast" sign flapping in the breeze at its gate. Inside, the farm's matriarch was all too happy to organize her impromptu guests a bed, and sit them down in front of a fire with a hot drink whilst she set about making up their room.

Aside from the isolation, bed and breakfasts had other advantages over more commercial establishments. More often than not family run or "mum and dad" type operations, they kept less stringent records of who passed through their doors and were generally more than happy to accept cash as payment. Though some of the questions could be a bit prying at times from the nosier operators, they were certainly easier to deflect than a potential enemy following hotel records or a credit card trail.

Sat in front of the fire with her shoes off, Monty had to admit that there may just be other benefits to the arrangement. Leaning over the arm of the soft couch, the girl unzipped her bag and extracted her computer, setting it to rest on her lap. Looking around for a power point, and finding none free nearby, she started to open the screen, but a firm hand pushed it closed again.

"Not tonight luv," said her handler from his position next to her.

"But there's…"

"But nothing," retorted Jethro quietly, cutting her off. Picking up the laptop he half climbed across his girl to replace it back in its bag.

Giving the man a flat stare and cocking an eyebrow, Monty started quietly, "I was _going_ to make a start on the data from Monaco."

Getting off her again, the handler put an arm around his cyborg and pulled her in to snuggle up against his side, "Like I said: not tonight. Having you sit there working doesn't fit our cover, not to mention that if we _do_ wind up staking out wherever it is we're going you'll have plenty time enough to work on it then… or be bored, take your pick."

Realizing that her handler had a point, and that she wasn't going to be allowed to win this one anyway, the girl gave a resigned sigh. Then she wiggled into a slightly more comfortable position and took a sip of her drink; maybe to give in, shoot for an early night and an early start would be the better part of valour for now.

* * *

><p>Unlike Monty's intention to work late, an early start did eventuate and the fratello were again on the road before daybreak. Informed that they would be on the leaving early, the matriarch of the farm had been up even earlier to make sure her guests were sent on their way well fed, caffeinated... and fuelled; Jethro taking the opportunity to brim the Audi's tanks from the farm's own supply of diesel.<p>

With the rising altitude the landscape also continued to change, grassed fields giving way to rocks and hardy, stunted bushes and trees. Unlike the humid and temperate climate Istanbul enjoyed, Turkey's high Anatolian regions were ill suited to supporting less resilient forms of life. This was an ancient landscape, cut and shaped by the elements; a land of short, dry, baking hot summers and long, frigid winters; and those organisms which still survived weren't giving up any time soon. Between it all, the area's sparse populace somehow managing to eke out a living from snow-melt water and the patches of barren dirt between the rocks...

...With no-one to look on, it would also be the perfect sort of place for illicit cargoes to be quietly exchanged by one upstanding businessman with another.

As the landscape became increasingly rugged, so did the tarmac, crisscrossed with cracks and craters where the once carefully laid asphalt had given in to the rigours of the elements; any supercar unfortunate enough to find its way up here would have been reduced to a crawl. The Allroad estate however pounded along hour after hour… not that it was all smooth sailing, and Monty let out an "umph" as her handler failed to avoid a particularly awkwardly placed pothole.

Looking down at the hand-held GPS she carried, the girl checked the co-ordinates on it against those on Omurtak's manifest, "We still want to be a few clicks to the north east."

Once within about fifty kilometres of their destination, the fratello had soon given in trying to use specific roads to reach the grid reference and instead started hunting ways less travelled. While the maps they had showed major routes, the last time a cartographer had done their work properly out here had been during the late 1980s for the military and Google Earth hadn't been particularly helpful either.

Pulling off the tarmac at a hopeful looking exit, Jethro knocked the Audi into low gear and started it nosing up a dirt track which disappeared into the hills. Heavily rutted from snowmelt runoff as it was, the handler carefully picked a line between the deeper cuts in an effort to keep all four wheels planted. Though reasonably confident in the fratello's ability to recover the car if it got stuck, the last thing he wanted was beach his vehicle all the way up here. After two full days on the road, the prospect of putting in the effort to pull the car off its bash plates did not appeal, and he was certain his partner wouldn't relish needing to get the hand winch out either.

Eventually the track reached its terminus, high on a rocky outcrop overlooking the valley below... and apparently also another dead end, one more potential approach to cross off the list.

"We're still too far south anyway," put in Monty, checking her GPS.

"Not to mention the sorts of vehicles they'd need to transport the tonnages listed out wouldn't make it up that slope," added Jethro, "Or even be able to turn around up here."

Shutting off the engine however he continued, "Come on, lets take a look around anyway, might as well make use of the view while we're here."

Opening her door, Monty was immediately struck by the cold. While it had been chilly at the bed and breakfast, this was proper, biting cold, bearing with it the threat of snow and a harsh winter. The Audi's position was partially sheltered by gnarled trees, creating a pocket of relative calm as the wind whipped around their branches, tearing at their few remaining leaves. However the icy air still cut right through the sensible slacks and thick, ribbed wool jumper she wore.

Opening the rear door, Monty took the time to retrieve her heavy, Russian military, greatcoat to keep out the wind, along with a set of merino lined leather gloves. Joining her handler on the edge of an almost sheer drop into the valley below, she lifted the GPS up again.

"Where we're going should be somewhere in that direction," she said, using her hand to direct his gaze out toward the north.

Handing the binoculars to his cyborg, Jethro let her start a slow sweep of the area to which she had just gestured. At this latitude, the afternoon shadows were already starting lengthen, turning the valley floor with its taller, more protected vegetation, into a riot of light and dark patterns, sharply contrasting with one another in the clear air. Tilting his head back to take in the wispy clouds scudding across the sky, the handler jammed his hands deeper into his pockets and inhaled deeply, held the breath for a second and let it out slowly as he savoured the moment of tranquilly. While he'd never led what could be described as a "relaxing" life, these little pieces of quiet seemed to be becoming rarer and rarer luxuries. When was the last time they'd taken a day to stop and recharge? Six months? More? Probably the last time would have been Christmas, just after Bruges.

Shaking out of his reverie, Jethro turned his attention back to the landscape below. As his companion started to go over the same area again, a glint of light outside of her search pattern caught his attention. Patting Monty's upper arm to get her attention, he directed her gaze to where the glint had come from.

"See anything down there?"

Turning to where her handler pointed, the girl took a couple of seconds to take in the surrounding landscape, "Nicely spotted. There's a series of buildings down there. They're pretty well camouflaged... there's a bit of open ground in front of them too, like a hardstand… It _looks_ like an airfield."

"An airfield?"

_...If it is, that might go some way to explaining Rade's presence._

Monty didn't reply; now that she knew what she was looking for, other details started to swim into focus, "I think so, you can just make out the line of the runway, set roughly parallel along the valley itself… someone went to a lot of trouble to hide that at some point and the elements have just finished the job."

"Check it out?"

"Well it's probably a tad east of what I'd consider our likely search area, but yes."

Jethro gently lifted the binoculars away from his cyborg and replaced them in their case, "I'd hazard a guess that our co-ordinates are for an entrance gate or similar. If we try circling around and coming in from the west, we'd stand a pretty fair chance of finding a way in."

Marking a waypoint for their lookout on the GPS, Monty accompanied her handler back to the car and they picked their way slowly back along the ruined track.

* * *

><p>It took the better part of two hours for the fratello to find a route down and start working a return up the wide valley floor. At the grid reference quoted off Omurtak's manifest, and just on twilight, Jethro had turned off the road onto an overgrown track which disappeared into the wilderness. With little more than two wheel tracks to guide the vehicle, the handler picked his way cautiously forward as they dodged through trees and rocks, the car's sump guard brushing scraggly clumps of plant life along the centreline.<p>

For half an hour the Audi idled along in low gear before it pulled up near the remains of a guard hut, just at the edge of what passed for the tree line. Retrieving the binoculars from their now almost permanent residence on the rear seat, Monty left Jethro in the car with the engine running and crept forward to where she could get a good view of the airfield. Crouching down her knee rested on the remains of a boom gate lying on the ground, seemingly torn from its fixings rather than simply destroyed by the elements. Feasibly that could have been done by exploring kids or some other form of hooligan, but it didn't seem likely this far out. That meant someone had once accessed the installation for a reason, and fairly recently too.

Putting her binoculars to her eyes, the cyborg scanned the open area, paying particular attention to the buildings themselves. Methodically she checked each window, broken or otherwise before moving her search out along the far tree line.

Review of the area complete, Monty retreated to the car and sat herself back in the passengers' seat.

"Nothing?" queried her handler.

"Not that I could see, it all seems pretty abandoned," she replied. "That said, I think it would be prudent to give those buildings a once over before moving out onto the airfield proper."

Jethro nodded, then slipped the Audi into gear, crawling out onto the edge of the clearing. A rusting, decrepit chain-link fence separated the airfield from the surrounding countryside, but the former British agent kept as close to the trees as possible as the fratello slunk around its perimeter.

On the edge of the compacted hardstand area, still a good fifty metres from the first building, Jethro halted. Withdrawing her PPK from where it resided under her seat for such journeys and screwing a silencer into its muzzle, Monty checked there was a round in the chamber and flicked the safety off. Taking the small firearm in a firm two-handed grip she started to move along the fence on foot, whist Jethro kept her covered from the relative safety of their car. Drawing level with the first building, the cyborg moved quickly but silently across the open ground between it and the fence, then cautiously nudged the door open.

Her first footstep inside stirred up a little puff of dust, its sparkling motes dancing in the last slanting rays of twilight pouring through a shattered window... light glinting off the irregular shards was probably what had caught her handler's eye at the lookout. Other panes of glass were still intact, valiantly resisting the elements, but covered over in grime causing them to offer only a ghostly, diffuse glow; scant help against the dingy building interior.

Monty took another step forward, kicking up more puffs from the bare wood floors, her eyes searching in the half-light. A layer of the ever-present dust covered everything, though slightly less prevalently under the broken window where molten snow had helped wash the area clean. It was a fair guess that no-one had been in here in a long time.

Edging toward the cleaner patch, Monty tested it cautiously with her boot and felt the timber sag alarmingly under the pressure... Assumedly it was riddled with dry rot and the girl made a note to avoid any similar areas.

Desks were pushed up against three of the hut's four walls, the clear one, facing the airfield itself sporting a low bookshelf. Though those shelves were bare, the airfield had apparently been abandoned in a hurry; on another bench near the far wall stood a bank of ancient radio gear deemed too heavy or too old to be worth moving out.

Crossing the room, Monty shifted her gun to one hand and used the other to brush some of the dust away from the equipment's face. Though her grasp of the language didn't extend far enough to read all of what was written there, she recognized the Russian Cyrillic text immediately, and some of the maker's plate: "R-880M - Ulyanov, Ulyanovsk, 1977". Circling the space she continued inspecting that which had been left behind; a desk drawer gave up an aircraft spotters' guide, again in Russian and with a Soviet Air Force crest embossed on the front, but beyond that and the furniture there was precious little else to find.

Moving quietly back across the room, the cyborg shut the door silently behind her. Though the wind would mask any sound she made somehow, in the reverential atmosphere of this forgotten Cold War relic, loud noises and sudden movements seemed inappropriate.

The next building was much like the first, abandoned and dilapidated, but for the better part preserved by the dry climate and high altitude. This was a dormitory, with single rooms at one end, presumably for officers and ablutions at the other. Another building contained a small mess, cutlery and embossed crockery still in the kitchen, followed by another office.

Arriving at the final, largest building, Monty picked her way carefully through the remnants of a camouflage-netted refuelling depot and pressed up against the rear wall. Reaching out she slowly turned the handle of the rear door and swung it inwards, watching it kick up another sparkling cloud…

She froze; there were bootprints in the dust, not entirely recent ones, but certainly much newer than anything else on the former Soviet outpost. Suddenly on edge again, the cyborg adjusted her grip on her gun and moved cautiously inside.

The interior of the building was as dingy as any of the others, but it was open, with a packed-earth floor and large vehicle doors at one end. Next to them was a small office with what appeared to be a work area next to it. Filling the rest of the space, and along the back wall, were stacked dozens of wooden crates, of all different shapes and sizes. If the radio had been too heavy to be worth moving, then so seemingly had been this warehouse's contents. Either that or it was finding a new use under revised management.

Keeping away from the open vehicle doors to avoid being silhouetted against the light, Monty moved to the far end of the warehouse and began sweeping forward. Clearing the tight alleys between each row of boxes, she peered into the murky darkness, trying to pick out any potential threats. Fortunately her fears seemed unfounded as she moved back into the open area nearer the office. Still unwilling to take her isolation for granted, the girl combed the cases stacked against the rear wall, before moving quickly across the intervening space to the office itself. Acting as cautiously as before, she pushed the door open…

...Nothing, not even boot prints this time.

Now willing to accept that she may actually be alone, but no less alert, Monty moved back to the door she had entered through and started to trace the boot prints that led from it. Careful not to get them confused with her own tread pattern, she moved again toward the back of the warehouse, down one aisle then up another, passing by crate after crate emblazoned with the hammer and sickle of the once mighty Soviet Union. Other markings read names like "Kalashnikov" or 7.62mm, however the vast majority seemed to belong to machinery or electronics suppliers.

Finding the trail's terminus, Monty reached into one which had been broken open and withdrew a small, grey cardboard box, printed roughly in blue with the letters "ry-5C". Opening it, she shook the package and a glass tube, chock full of electronics and with an array of pins on the end, dropped into her hand.

Holding the thing up to the soft, dust-mote filled light streaming in through a broken skylight, Monty inspected her find. An electron valve; bulky, ancient technology, but used for years after the introduction of transistors by the military, particularly behind the Iron Curtain, for its resistance to electromagnetic interference.

"Now what would someone be after _you_ for..." she murmured quietly.

Placing her find back in its cardboard packaging and pocketing it, the cyborg continued her inspection of the crates along this row. Others had been opened as well, but were seemingly empty. As she investigated further however, a pattern began to appear. The markings on most, if not all, the opened crates had one thing in common: somewhere on each was stamped the word "Ilyushin".

Stepping out again into the clear, late autumn air, Monty shivered slightly and rubbed her upper arms in an attempt to get some more heat into them. Her search over, and able to divert her attention elsewhere, only now was she starting to realise just how far the temperature had dropped. Not wanting to waste any extra time she made her way quickly back to the car and plonked down in the passenger seat.

"Place looks deserted," she reported. "I'm going to guess it was some sort of covert forward installation the Soviets kept.

"Thoughts as to why?"

Monty shrugged, "Any number of reasons; it would be easier to put agents into the West from Turkey than from behind the Iron Curtain for one, and it's certainly deserted enough up here."

"And the personnel just upped and left when the USSR imploded?" Queried Jethro.

"Looks like, if I was a suddenly unemployed member of the military, I'd have been headed for Europe after The Curtain came down rather than back home. There's a lot of equipment still here and someone has been raiding the warehouse already..." pausing, the girl pulled the little cardboard box containing her vacuum tube out of her pocked and held it up. "...mostly little stuff like this, other electrics and so on… most of it seemed to be for Candids."

This last caught Jethro's attention; "Candid" was the NATO reporting name for the Russian Ilyushin IL-76. When the Soviet Union had finally crumbled, hundreds of the giant transports had simply disappeared from the air force's arsenal, taken by their crews in lieu of wages that couldn't be paid, beds which couldn't be slept in and food which couldn't now be provided by the government. Many of those aircraft, including those belonging to Rade Janovich, now filled vital roles delivering humanitarian aid to the world's trouble spots or simply flying the runs western pilots would not touch. The chariots of heroes however they were not. Aid was after all an excellent cover, and in a fuselage seemingly packed to the gunwales with blankets and tents and right on it's supposed maximum take-off weight, a good crew could hide up to an extra 15 tonnes of contraband... often including the very guns forcing refugees from their homes in the first place.

"Lets get out to the runway threshold, there's something I want to check before the light goes."

Wrapped again in heavy coats, the fratello walked out across the weathered hardstand area. As they reached the runway, the icy wind which had assaulted them at the lookout again made its presence felt. Out here, without trees to slow its passage across the ground and channelled by the valley's sides it roared around them, whipping up dry dust and dirt and battering the two lonely figures occupying the pavement.

Standing on what had once been the runway's painted threshold, hair being whipped around her face, Monty took in the surrounding vista. It was verging on night now, with the entire landscape picked out in the pinkish remnants of twilight and contrasted with deep, dark shadows. On both sides, hills rose above the airfield. While those to the south were sheer and rocky, the landscape to the north, whilst still rugged, was lower and more open; which would give an aircraft a decent sort of approach. Under her feet, the tarmac was just as, if not more, damaged than the roads she and Jethro had so recently been driving on. Cracked and potholed from years of repeated freezings, thawings and summertime bakings any layman, and certainly any air safety official, would have condemned it immediately. However, the cyborg knew from white-knuckled personal experience that the tough Ilyushins and the brave, half mad and sometimes drunk crews that flew them, would be unfazed by such conditions. To men known to land on just about any clear space long enough to take their aircraft (and even some not), just having paving and markings to put down on at all was a luxury.

A few metres over, her handler was studying something on the tarmac's surface itself. Standing up he turned to face perpendicular to the runway and took a series of measured paces across the asphalt, stopping again to study the ground.

"Found something?"

"Tyre marks… hard to tell, but I'd say they're reasonably fresh, and about the right distance apart for a Candid's gear," Jethro stood up again to face his companion. "If they are, some pilot probably remembered this place from the old days and suggested it as a handover point to Omurtak."

"Rade?"

"Considering we saw him coming out of the Polo Club, I would not be surprised."

"Did he even operate around the Black Sea?"

Jethro shrugged, "Who knows? Even if he didn't, one of the pilots flying for him might have."

Monty nodded, "That would go some way to explaining the raided spare parts as well. It'd be easy enough to nip over to the warehouse during a drop to grab anything that might be needed, and certainly cheaper than buying."

"Agreed, this airfield is isolated enough that no-one would mind spending a few extra minutes on the ground."

"Now if we only knew where they came from or where they went."

Jethro put an arm around his girl, "That luv, is something which can be figured out later. For now I vote we get back to the car before we turn into human popsicles."

"So where to?" asked Monty as the fratello turned again toward the perimeter. "You said something about staking this place out, and I can't think of any reason not to."

Releasing his girl to let them both walk more easily, the handler scratched the back of his head with a gloved hand. "I think it might be worthwhile. If you're happy to live on tins for a bit we should be good for a couple of days. I doubt there'd be much point in hanging about longer than that."

Monty nodded, then looked around. The landscape immediately adjacent to the airfield was quite bare at this time of the year. On the verge of winter, few bushes and trees sported enough foliage to provide any decent form of concealment.

"If we're going to do that then I suggest going back to our overlook position," she gestured around the area with one hand. "The vegetation and topography serves to keep this joint hidden from prying eyes, but it's the isolation that helps the most. I can't see anywhere we'd be properly secure _and_ get a good view from down here."

The pair walked on in silence until they reached the Audi. Having stripped off their heavy outer layers and dumped them on the back seat, Jethro started the car and threw a u-turn towards the gate through which they'd entered.

"You know, I really don't like being lied too," mused the former spy as he carefully guided the car, still with its lights off, down the entrance track. "Well, not so much the being lied to, but the not picking it."

Beside him, his cyborg was helping her hair settle back into its vintage bob-cut, "Rade, Omurtak or both?"

"Omurtak maybe a little, but he was always untrustworthy... so's Rade, but he _is _slightly more vexing."

Monty considered this briefly, "I think perhaps more concerning is that it was so co-ordinated. For some reason they were specifically hiding their dealings, I'd be curious to know if that was just from the world in general, or us in particular for some reason."

"Worried we might be blown?"

"A little."

Reaching the main road, Jethro flicked the Allroad's powerful headlamps on and accelerated up to highway speed. Both fratello members remained silent as they drove, mulling over their own thoughts as they headed back towards the lookout.

Though she and Jethro had never been the sorts to dismiss rumour and circumstantial evidence in the manner that a court of law might, Monty had always found it easier to sell ideas to their controllers back in Italy if they had something concrete to present. Infuriatingly, though the fratello could make a number of what she felt were reasonably solid assumptions based on what they knew, they lacked that one infallible piece of information which would neatly tie everything together. Instead, what they had were a lot of pieces of a puzzle, some loosely linked together and others floating free, bumping up against one another till more connections could be made. Though again that had never stopped the fratello before, it would be nice to be able to move forward with some level of confidence rather than feeling like she was just grasping at straws.

Fortunately, even if no aeroplanes showed up at the airfield, the cyborg had one more ace to try before returning to Istanbul to start again.

* * *

><p>Tracing their way back toward the waypoint Monty had marked on the GPS, the fratello finally turned off the tarmac again and up the track they'd negotiated earlier in the day. Deciding that a little bit of security could be sacrificed for not getting hung up on the car's undercarriage, Jethro left the Audi's sidelights on as they climbed. The dim illumination made for slow going, only lighting a scant few metres ahead and turning the ruts into dark, gaping maws from which no wheel would return without help. In the closing darkness, both fratello members were keenly aware their car was not a full-time four wheel drive and thereby unable to haul itself out of such predicaments.<p>

On the track, Monty walked ahead of the vehicle, backwards up the slope. Keeping both front tyres under a watchful eye she used her hands to direct her handler's steering inputs and keep him on the high ground, whilst saving her voice from being blown away in the howling wind.

Finally the track started to level out onto the lookout at its terminus and Jetho killed the Audi's lights before they risked being spotted from the surrounding area. He positioned the car near a stand of rocks, putting it in partially beneath one of the scraggly, wind bent trees that populated these high areas, and far enough back from the edge of the outcrop to remain hidden from the valley floor and surrounding hills. Though that would prevent the fratello from being able to see the airfield from the interior, they still had a brilliant view of the skies above, which would suit their plane-spotting purposes nicely.

Path finding task complete, Monty retrieved two compact, cold-weather sleeping bags and tossed one into the back seat for later use. Taking a sip from her water bottle she then settled herself back into her customary position in the front passenger seat and dropped the other sleeping bag in her handler's lap.

"Get some rest; I'll wake you in six hours."

"No arguments here."

In truth, having been behind the wheel for over fourteen hours now, Jethro was more than happy to leave the first watch in his girl's capable hands. Remaining in the driver's chair, he pushed the seat rearwards as far as it would go and laid the back down to form a rudimentary bed. Off came his boots, which were placed behind Monty. Then he pulled the sleeping bag out of its compression sack and wiggled his way into it.

Laying back he spared a glance for his companion, "I'll see you in six hours."

Watching as her handler settled himself into a more comfortable position, Monty waited for him to pull the sleeping bag right up before turning her attention back out the windscreen of the car. This far away from civilization she wasn't sure if any aircrews utilizing the field would bother risking night landings, but someone still needed to be awake to make sure. Beside her, Jethro's sleeping bag rustled as he shifted position again. While it certainly wasn't the first time the fratello had slept in their car, the arrangement didn't make for the most comfortable of nights either and the girl knew from previous experience it would take her partner longer to nod off here than in proper bed.

With the engine now dormant and therefore no heating, the temperature inside began to plummet and it wasn't long before Monty was reaching for her own sleeping bag. In the driver's seat, her handler's breathing was now coming deeply and steadily. Once she had shaken the bag out to cover her legs, the girl reached back again to retrieve her laptop. Booting it up, she opened the data file from the Monaco HDD. Unfortunately it seemed that, like Omurtak's manifest, it had been ciphered and coded as well. Now she felt vindicated in making sure Jethro well and truly out; had he been awake, curiosity would have prevailed and he'd never have gone to sleep.

Monty copied the excel file into a new folder so she wouldn't risk disturbing the original data and set to work. Fortunately, someone had been kind enough to organize everything into spreadsheets already, which was an absolute blessing. Scrubbing her own eyes to ward off the fatigue, she started trawling through the data, trying to find patterns in the mass of information and sparing a glance occasionally to check the skies above.

* * *

><p>It was a tired and slightly frustrated cyborg who awoke her handler as, though her computer was now stored away again, the night had proven unfruitful. While she had been able to isolate similar sets of codes from the spreadsheets, that was fairly useless until the cipher could be broken. On that front she had got as far identifying it as alpha numeric and, though she wouldn't admit it out loud, the girl knew her failure to find much else was probably in part due to simple fatigue. That in itself was <em>annoying<em>.

"fzwuh... what time is it?" mumbled Jethro, starting the painful crawl towards consciousness.

"Four in the morning."

There was silence from the driver's seat as this was processed.

"That's nine hours, not six."

"I know, you'd been driving all day, I decided you could use the extra."

Shaking off the last dregs of sleep, Jethro set his seat upright and gave his girl a stern look, "Monty, luv, I'm not the only one who needs sleep in order to function."

"There'll be time enough to sleep once I'm dead."

"Which will be sooner rather than later if you're constantly run down," retorted her handler. "Now get some rest, I'll take over from here."

Stifling a yawn, Monty dropped her own chair back to a recumbent position and pulled her sleeping bag up to cover her chin.

"Six hours right?"

"Sure."

Contented that she would be woken in due course, the cyborg closed her eyes and finally allowed herself to succumb to the needs of her body.

Reaching over, Jethro gently brushed one of the ubiquitous tears from his girl's cheek. Certain she was out, and therefore unlikely to get carried away at the job again, the handler reached under her almost horizontal chair back to retrieve her computer from its duffel bag home. Though he'd not seen her with it out, it was a fair bet that Monty had been working during the hours he'd been unconscious. Had she not been able to get on with _something _she would have put up more resistance to staking out the abandoned airfield for days, rather than attacking a more tangible problem. Not having had a chance to go over the data from Monaco yet, he had a fairly good idea what the girl slumbering next to him would have turned her attention to.

Offering a quick prayer of thanks to Apple for making quiet laptops, Jethro booted the Macbook Pro, typed in the current day code, double checked its wireless was securely locked down, and started flicking through the files to find the most recently opened one. Fortunately, like most things she did, Monty's filing system was logical and ordered. It helped that Jethro had learned his way through it early on during their tenure together, so it didn't take long to locate what he was looking for.

Opening the working spreadsheet, he started trying to get a handle on what he was seeing. Obviously someone had seen fit to cipher the information, but after the tough security the SWA had encountered on the original hard drive itself, throwing an old school cipher in as well seemed a little redundant for a simple money laundering operation. Feasibly it may serve a purpose should part of the spreadsheet ever be turned into a hard copy, but that was about the only thing the spy could conceive beyond slowing people like him down.

Going by the way the spreadsheet was coloured up, Monty had started to work through trying to find patterns she could use to draw parallels with any other information the fratello might have. Managing large amounts of data, making connections and drawing conclusions from them was, after all, one of her great strengths. Jethro's talents however, lay elsewhere.

It took him all of ten minutes to find what he needed, two letters, one after the other: _FG_. Reaching into the driver's door bin, the handler withdrew a small, army surplus pocket notebook and a biro and scribbled out the rest of the line item to which the two letters belonged: _5073H NAK7 FG B0G4_. While Monty possessed what he considered to be the dark ability to manage her work on a computer screen, Jethro still found it easier to think onto paper.

Dropping down the page a little, the handler wrote out the alphabet and numbers 1 to 0 in a string of small, neat handwriting. There were only a limited number of instances in the western alphabet where two letters, one after the other, formed a word as well. Starting at the first, he lined up the F and G then started writing out the rest of the alphabet again in sequence to give him the answer to a simple shift-cipher.

The first pass yielded no results. Crossing out the corresponding alphabet, the spy and practiced forger moved his isolated F and G along to the second possible point they could correspond to in a shift.

This time around he found success, albeit with a few misspellings: _CHEAP VISE NO JHOB_. That suggested a number of possibilities. The first and simplest was that he was wrong this time too and needed to try again. The second was that there was another step to be undertaken, possibly an anagram to be unscrambled.

Taking the first possibility as the easiest to address, Jethro moved onto another entry and began to apply his shift cipher rule to that as well.

* * *

><p>By the time Monty awoke, her handler had reached a stage where he was reasonably certain that his second assumption was the correct one, and had carried on to unscrambling anagrams from the results.<p>

Sitting upright, the cyborg wiped the sleep from her eyes, blinking in the clear late-autumn sunlight. She'd dreamt about something, she always did, but could never remember what... Spotting her computer now resting on the dashboard while her handler worked, she leaned over, brushing the trackpad to bring the Mac out of sleep mode and eyed what was displayed on screen. For the line items Jethro had deciphered, he had added an extra row underneath for the resulting text. For those he had worked on the anagrams for, he had then typed down possible solutions and part of Monty's brain cringed at the work now needed to organise everything into something useable again.

"You broke the spreadsheet then..."

Looking up from his notepad Jethro nodded, "I hope so, at the moment it looks like being a two parter: an anagram wrapped up in a shift cipher."

Realising he hadn't caught the jab, Monty gave in, stifled a yawn then stretched, locking her fingers together and arching her back.

"Well..." she sat back upright, rolling her shoulders a couple of times "...if you give me the rule for the shift I'll get excel to work the rest out. The anagrams however we'll likely be on our own for..."

Starting to put her battered hiking boots on again she continued, "...but I think coffee first..."

"...and something to eat," added her handler.

Stuffing her sleeping bag back into its compression sack, Monty swapped it for her heavy greatcoat from the rear seat, thankful that the Russian military had designed its clothes for Siberia. Outside, the gale of the night before seemed to have abated, leaving an icy calm in its wake. Now wrapped up warm against the chill, she circled around to the rear of the vehicle to extract a small, chocolate brown, monogram-print case from amongst the luggage. In the shelter of a larger rock, the girl set it down on a flat stone and cleared a patch of ground with her boot, on which she placed a small and well used single burner hiking stove. From other slots in the case she extracted a tin of ground coffee and a stovetop percolator.

With the percolator apart, Monty used a water bottle she'd also brought from the car to fill its boiler. Then she dropped in the basket, filling it with grindings which got lightly tamped with her fingers, and screwed down the top of the contraption firmly. Lighting the stove, she adjusted the flame to the lowest level the unregulated burner could reliably maintain and set the percolator atop it. The most important part of the coffee ritual now underway, out of the custom built case then came two tin kidney cups with folding handles, sugar, a teaspoon from the array of cutlery securely strapped into the lid and finally, if somewhat less auspiciously: two small cans of baked beans.

While she waited for the coffee pot to come to the boil, the girl peeled the labels off both cans and started to sort through what foodstuffs remained. Though not particularly exciting fare, the little camping kit contained supplies enough to sustain the fratello for a couple of days... so long as they were willing to live out of tins.

Hearing the percolator start to bubble, Monty pulled it off the stove before it could burn the grind. Then, filling one of the kidney cups with water, turned the stove up to full flame and set it on to heat. Meanwhile she half opened the ring pull on one of the cans of beans and, as the water in the cup started to boil, wrapped her hand in a tea towel and swapped the can with it, turning the stove back down.

Hot water was distributed between both kidney cups, along with the brewed coffee and a spoonful of sugar added to each. Taking the cooler of the two by its handle, Monty moved back to the car and opened her handler's door to pass the beverage into him.

Jethro took a sip and closed his eyes contentedly, "Ahh... I was ready for that."

His girl offered a small smile in return, "I've put beans on for you as well, but you're not eating them in the car."

"Right, I'll be with you in a minute."

By the time he made it over to the stove, Monty had the second can of beans heating. Using a claw like utensil hooked into the rim of the first tin she handed it to her partner, along with a spoon.

"Careful, it's hot."

Taking her own breakfast from the stove, the girl shut off the flame and sat down on another bare rock to eat, occasionally taking a sip of her coffee until she reached the bottom of both. Rinsing out her now empty cup she filled it again and relit the stove to heat washing up water.

"I take it we're going to be here for a few days," she stated, clearing away her and her handler's empty cans into a tough garbage bag.

Jethro nodded, "Until a plane turns up, the food runs out or we find something better to pursue... probably."

"On the food front we're good for another two days."

"Then I guess we'll be up here for a maximum of two days," he returned, rinsing his own cup out and taking a tea towel from his cyborg. "After that I say we change tack and start taking a closer look at 'Hermes Freight Forwarders'."

Monty had the warm water off the stove now and was quickly washing the cutlery in it, passing the clean items to her handler to dry and place back in the case's storage slots.

"They do seem like the next best bet, and for all we know Omurtak's stopped using this airfield."

"So lets not spend too long up here," finished the handler.

* * *

><p>Cooking kit packed away and feeling fresher for a caffeine infusion, Monty lifted her computer from the dashboard and placed it on her lap.<p>

"This is where you got up to?"

"That's it, far enough along to feel reasonably convinced that this cipher rule I'm using is correct... then started playing with some of the anagrams; because if those don't work then it'll be back to square one."

Guessing what his companion's next intention was, Jethro tore a page out of his notepad, "The rule I've been using for the shift-cipher."

Taking the scrap from him, Monty flicked her eyes over it, noting the crossed out alphabet and original code he'd drawn from.

"I take it we've not figured out what we're deciphering yet," stated the girl.

"Data from the Monaco drive."

Not feeling that particular statement deserved an answer, Monty instead contented herself with fixing her handler with a flat stare and pointed to the scrap of paper now sitting on her keyboard.

"This is where you started?"

Shooting his girl an impish grin, her partner leaned across the centre console and pointed to the screen at the line item he'd used to first work out the cipher rule. "Yes, see how the 'F' and the 'G' are together as a single element?"

"...and you've not tried the anagram for it yet?"

"Not with any success, no."

Filtering the excel spreadsheet, Monty pulled up the other instances where the particular code cropped up. Running her eyes across the columns of data, something twigged her attention and she started digging for her phone.

"Were these dates ciphered as well?"

"Yes, minus the anagram, but it all seems to fall under the same rule."

Flicking through one of the apps on her iPhone, the girl quickly she found what she was looking for and glanced at her handler, "That anagram, try _'Joseph Ebanovich'_."

Willing to trust his cyborg's hunches, Jethro started scribbling on his notepad again, however...

"What makes you so sure? We wrapped Ebay up months ago," he asked, remembering the unfortunate arms-deal middleman whom Monty had, mostly by accident, electrocuted to death in his Bahamas hotel room.

With a slightly triumphant flourish, the girl placed her phone next to the computer screen. On it was the email she had ripped off Ebanovich's phone, with its list of dates and Euro which had set the ball rolling for the fratello's daring Monaco casino heist.

"The dates and times: they match," she said, pointing to a column in the excel spreadsheet, then to the same data written into the email. Moving across the screen she continued, "I'm going to hazard a guess that these figures here are how much Ebanovich was 'winning' at each station and this last column is the where. If your anagram unscrambles into his name then I'd say that would be pretty good confirmation the shift rule's correct as well."

Pulling her phone back so she could read it better Monty continued, "So 'FA09' on the spreadsheet is 'Roulette Table South' on the email... and our arms broker was going to 'win' to the tune of 1.2 million Euro there."

Now the girl looked her partner squarely in the eyes.

"What we have here I think," she said levelly, "is a list of people who were sent to the Fairmont Casino to receive payment for 'services rendered' to the Five Republics Faction."

Jethro had now finished his scribbling and flipped the pad up so his companion could see it. "I think you're right."

On it was written "Joseph Ebanovich" and the original anagram... with all the letters crossed out.

"One thing I can say for sure," put in the handler. "That was a whole lot easier with something to work toward."

Monty nodded, "I think we would do well to move this onto Ferro. Anyone the Agency has suspected of having Padania ties but hasn't been able to peg yet I will... _suggest_... she get a mook to check their travel records: if they've been anywhere near the south of France in the last, say 18 months, cross-check their names against the list here."

Jethro hid a grin, "Would you prefer to do that than wait for aeroplanes?"

His cyborg considered the proposition briefly, "I'm sure waiting another day or two won't hurt her, and we're here already... Not to mention it'd be nice to have a bit more to send through."

_And to filter out anything we might want to keep to ourselves_, she added in the privacy of her own head.

"And what makes you so certain the SWA's own analysts haven't put two and two together worked this one out already?"

Now Monty gave her handler a slow, sly, self-satisfied smile, "Simple: because they're not _me_."

* * *

><p>Two days and no aeroplanes later, the Blacker fratello found itself in Turkey's capital city of Ankara. Situated high on the Central Anatolian Plateau, Ankara had been inhabited, in one form or another, since the Bronze ages. The status of "capital" however had only been bestowed upon it after the fall of the Ottoman Empire in the early 1920s. Smaller, drier and less vibrant than its predecessor Istanbul, the city never the less served as an important centre of politics and business.<p>

Wallowing in the luxury of a proper work desk, Monty took a sip of her coffee and studied the outline of her slumbering partner in the bed. After three days sleeping in their car, and a good day's drive to get from the abandoned airfield to here, proper beds and a shower had been very much appreciated.

With her only real intentions being to stay the night and scrounge some wired net access, Monty had chosen convenience when booking the hotel and damn the cost. Swissotel Ankara was situated in the city's southeast with easy access to the ring-road should the Blackers need to leave in a hurry. It also boasted free on-site parking, fast internet and a laundry service which would allow the mobile fratello to do what passed for their "housework".

Bundling up her and Jethro's findings so far from the Monaco hard disk, Monty dropped them into one of the online dead letterboxes and left her electronic chalk mark on an interior design humour blog. That task complete she started to roll through her mental "to do" list.

The data package itself wasn't as complete as the girl would have liked. Though her broad application of Jethro's cipher rule had been reasonably successful as an exercise, that rule had only been good for a single quarter of the year. After that, her handler had needed to go back to square one to find a new rule as the code changed. Though the ciphers had remained quite simple, the process was time consuming and they'd decrypted eighteen months worth of data before calling it and moving onto the anagrams themselves.

That had been less successful. For each entry there was any number of possible unscrambled solutions, and being able to pick the correct one had created difficulties. With her slow mobile internet connection still locked down, Monty had been unable to start researching for possible leads. What she _had_ been able to do was go through Ebanovich's email register to see if it could give any hints as to which of her handler's solutions might be the correct ones. That process had given one or two results, but had soon exhausted itself. However, as more of the data was decrypted, Monty intended to go back to it occasionally. The next batch of names to try against the hard drive would be those of individuals the fratello remembered from the Fairmont itself.

Also notably absent from the list so far were Omurtak and Rade. The latter was somewhat understandable as his involvement, if any, would likely be contracted through the Turk. However, while it was feasible he was completely clean of dealings with the Five Republics, given what she'd seen so far Monty was left dubious... which meant his payment had to be coming via another route.

That particular suspicion had _not_ made it into her report back to the Agency.

Chasing names however could wait for when her handler had finished his kip. Scrubbing at weary eyes, the girl drained the last of her coffee and flicked open a new tab in the Mac's Safari browser. Working methodically, she opened up web pages for the Financial Times, Lloyd's DCN and finally Google. Into the search bar of the last she typed "Hermes Freight Forwarders" and settled in to get some background on who Omurtak was dealing with now.

* * *

><p>Cool morning sunlight was filtering in through the room's white gauze curtains by the time Jethro awoke. Groaning and turning away from the light, the next thing he noticed was the absence of a Monty shaped weight in the bed next to him. Sitting up on the mattress, the handler took a moment to roll his shoulders around then rocked his head left and right, feeling the vertebrae click back into place. Whatever had taken his girl away could probably wait the few seconds he needed realign his spine.<p>

Feeling a little more ready to deal with the world, Jethro looked back toward the window, catching the work desk in his line of vision. Monty was slumped over her computer, breathing rhythmic and even as she slept.

Knowing better than to attempt something silly like say; lifting the slumbering Monty up and carrying her to bed, her partner instead headed for a shower, shave and bladder emptying. The cyborgs could be edgy creatures at the best of times and, having rarely slept anywhere that could be properly deemed "secure", picking his particular girl up whilst asleep was likely to end in an injury. Either that, or he'd drop her halfway on account of trying to lift the equivalent of a fully grown adult whilst still in a zombie state himself.

Showering definitely seemed like the safest option.

Half an hour later however, on exiting the shower Jethro found her still snoozing. Figuring if he left it any later she'd be more annoyed over being allowed to oversleep and waste a day, he gently shook her shoulder.

"Up and at 'em Atom Ant."

Muttering slightly, Monty raised her head off the keyboard, "What time is it?"

"Half, seven... and that's a _fantastic_ case of qwerty-itis you're developing."

Touching the side of her face and feeling the square indents left by the keyboard she'd been using as a pillow, Monty scowled, "Oh, bloody hell."

Jethro shot her a teasing grin, "Go have a shower then we'll look to rounding up some breakfast."

Taking his girl's place as she dragged herself off toward the bathroom, the handler pulled her computer out of sleep mode and found the word document she'd been using to take notes before nodding off. The information was thorough, but nothing particularly ground-breaking: Hermes dealt mostly in container freight and was originally of Greek origin. Its business lay primarily around the Mediterranean and its attached seas, as well as through Northern Africa and with slightly sparser offices up along Europe's Atlantic coast. As expected it had suffered along with everyone else through the global economic downturn but had listed publicly in the last twelve months.

Flicking further through the notes Monty had made, it became readily apparent that that going public had been intended as a form of capital raising. Since listing, the company had opened subsidiary offices in China, Hong Kong, Singapore and down through the Sub-Continent and Southeast Asia to Australia. It had also made inroads into South America and even Sub-Saharan Africa: all economies which had come out of the GFC reasonably unscathed. The strategy seemed to be paying off too as, since rolling out this future-proofing of its business; Hermes' fortunes had been on the rise.

As he got to the end of the page there was a creak from the bathroom door and Monty stuck her head around it, "I need underwear."

"Come out and get it yourself."

"Not likely, and while you're at it I could use a shirt and skirt."

Getting up, Jethro closed the laptop and went to fetch his cyborg's clothes. Seeing what he'd been doing the girl continued. "What's your take on that?"

Extracting from a suitcase a clean bra and set of underwear, along with what passed for Monty's "around the house" clothes of a thin, white, fitted t-shirt with deep v-neck and black knee-length pencil skirt, Jethro answered. "Not sure yet, the business strategy _seems_ appropriate, and doesn't immediately suggest anything untoward."

Passing the garments through the gap in the bathroom door, he leaned against the wall to continue the conversation whilst his girl dressed. "Sure they've been making money post-crash; but so have lots of people who grasped an opportunity and played their cards right."

"Seems we were thinking down the same lines," replied Monty. "That said, something isn't quite sitting right; that was a lot of investment activity for a company to make on share capital alone. Feasibly they could have acquired a loan as well, but... in that environment? I don't know how many banks would have been willing to lend, particularly to the Greeks."

Exiting the bathroom, she smoothed her skirt down and crossed to their suitcase to add some finishing touches to her outfit she'd want before being seen in public.

"I'd like to have a bit more of a nose around what Hermes' stocks have done since they listed..."

Jethro nodded, "Would it be worth spending another day here then? It's not like we'll have nothing to do: I can keep going on the Monaco data and you follow up on Hermes... not to mention it'd give us a chance to get some extra washing done."

Pulling on a shoe Monty considered this, then shrugged, "Honestly, I wouldn't mind a bit more working time."

"Fine, we'll extend our stay another night after breakfast," walking over he lifted his girl up from her sitting position. "C'mon, I'm starving."

* * *

><p>Breakfast was served in the Swissotel's restaurant as a buffet and catered to international tastes. Having created herself the start of a decent sized Continental offering, Monty returned for coffee, orange juice and that day's copy of the Financial Times. Folding the famously pink-hued broadsheet back on itself for ease of handling, she started on a fruit salad while, across the table, Jethro's choice of eating was somewhat more calorie heavy and his reading more locally focused.<p>

Silence reigned between the Blackers, both content to catch up on the news of the world. Though the papers rarely carried any genuinely "new" information on clandestine happenings, they did offer a broad overview of international events, and to the mostly self-guided fratello that could be just as useful as a bug in a war-room.

Starting a croissant stuffed with cold meats and cheese, Monty turned the Financial Times over to the Lex opinion and assessment column and started reading her way through. Perhaps somewhat predictably it focused on the European Union's continuing financial woes, particularly the troubled Greece. However, as the article started to find its focus, the cyborg began reading more closely and shot a glance at her handler. He was still engrossed in his own newspaper and Monty didn't want to say anything right now; while the business crowd frequenting the Swissotel were civilised company, they didn't provide the raucous sound masking of tourists.

Ten minutes later however, the fratello was fed, caffeinated and more ready to face the day. Getting up from the table and accompanying her handler back towards reception to extend their stay, Monty kept the complimentary newspaper with her.

"I'll meet you upstairs," she said and, without waiting for further comment, headed for the elevator, leaving her slightly bemused handler behind to deal with the girl on the front desk.

Back in the room, Monty double checked the door was locked and opened her laptop again. Logging back in she was quickly on Google and, remaining careful not to leave pages below her pen to leave an indent on, jotted down a quick note on the newspaper beside her. By the time Jethro knocked and walked through the door, the girl's pace had become less fevered as she trawled through the Financial Times website and Reuters looking for extra information.

"So, what did you find?"

Looking up from her computer, Monty spun her pink broadsheet around and stabbed the page with a finger, "That."

Crossing to the desk, her handler peered at the FT's Lex column, "'Crumbling Futures: can the Greek economy recover, or will its future crumble like the ruins of its past...'?"

He gave his girl a questioning look and she set out to explain. "It's mostly a rundown of how Greek companies are being bought up by overseas interests, so much of the cashflow they may have contributed to the economy is going elsewhere. However..." Now the girl gestured to a particular paragraph "...our friends at Hermes Forwarders get a mention, as a subsidiary of Anagnos Shipping."

"Interesting..."

"It is," continued the cyborg, "because Anagnos almost went into receivership eighteen months ago and was bought out by..." she swung her computer around with a slight flourish so her handler could see the screen "..._Marittima Italiana S.p.A_. Six months _later _its fortunes changed and Hermes went public."

"Now _that_, really is interesting."

"I thought so," returned Monty. "I haven't gotten much further yet, but I would not be surprised to find _Marittima Italiana_ eventually leading back to someone with Northern Separatist sympathies. More immediately though, unless I'm very much mistaken, we shared a Baccarat table with the CEO of Anagnos at the Fairmont, Monte Carlo."

"That we did," confirmed her handler. "You think she was there to be paid?"

Monty nodded, but Jethro continued thoughtfully, "Playing _Chemin de Fer_ was probably for her own interest, the casino couldn't hold enough sway over it to guarantee a payout... the question is: if Anagnos _is_ somewhere along the way owned by a Padanian: why pay the CEO? Why not just quietly control the company from afar?"

At her computer, his cyborg shrugged, "Maybe it's a good way of keeping things at arm's length? Or perhaps she's just a conduit to put money into the company so it can filter down to those doing the actual dirty work; she'd certainly be rich enough to be a Monaco regular without raising eyebrows."

Pointing at the paper in front of her, Monty went on, "Interestingly that's the only mention of Hermes and Anagnos being related at all. There's no mention of it on either company's website, or even across the 'net, so they seem to be attempting to keep links between the two quiet. Oddly, the news of _Marittima's_ takeover of a foreign national doesn't seem to have been particularly well telegraphed either... though there's enough financial woes going on around that country right now it plausibly could have been lost in the general mess..."

"Something of a Greek tragedy."

"...as I said though: there probably needs to be a bit more digging done."

Rubbing his chin, Jethro picked up the Times and inspected it, "Well if our shipping boss was receiving payment through the Fairmont, then she should be in that data set you pulled from the vault. Can you get a name?"

"Miles ahead of you," deadpanned the cyborg, flicking the bottom corner of the sheet her handler was reading. "Eleni Anagnos, daughter of the original founder."

"Well then, I'll get right on that," said Jethro, throwing a half grin at his girl.

Monty returned it with a small smile, "You do; I want to have a bit more of a sniff around Hermes' recent expansion and try following the trail back from its parent company for a bit. It would almost be worth shooting an RFI back to Rome, but there's been quite enough data traffic between us and the Agency just recently."

Her handler nodded at this; an RFI, or Request For Information, would have effectively put tracing of any paper trail back from Hermes, to Anagnos, to _Marittima Italiana_ and to the Padania in the hands of the SWA's intelligence department. With government documentation and other domestic resources to draw on, it stood a good chance of speeding up the process of sifting through the inevitable string of shell corporations and trust funds greatly. However, the people who dealt with gathering the raw data in those situations were as often as not simple desk drones, their job to collect information, usually with little more than rudimentary attempts at subtly or keeping their tracks covered. The last thing either fratello member wanted was to tip a potential target or source off early. Besides, as Monty had pointed out: there had been quite enough correspondence flowing backwards and forwards between the SWA and Blacker fratello of late; the more contact they had, the greater the likelihood of some other party finding the link.

Taking a seat in the room's armchair with his notebook and a pdf copy of the Fairmont spreadsheet on his phone, Jethro settled down to try to find "Eleni Anagnos" mixed up in the list of anagrams it contained. Unfortunately the name didn't contain any particularly rare letters, which could make sorting out which line items were not worth an attempt more difficult. Then of course there was always the possibility the name had been anglicised, or given similar treatment into any of the languages passing through Monaco.

Squinting at his phone's small screen again, Jethro couldn't help but think it may be worth investing in something with a little more display real estate.

"I think I might pick up an iPad at some point."

Monty glanced up from her own work, "What, are you going that senile you need large print already?"

"Yes, I'll soon get to the stage where all I'll be able to do is sit in an armchair and drool. Of course, with all this little writing my eyesight will probably go first and you'll need to chauffer me around."

"Fine, you can have an iPad."

"Actually, I'm kind of keen on this getting chauffeured idea now..."

The cyborg fixed her handler with a stare much older than the teenager any right to be giving. "I'm sure the Agency can give you new eyes if you break the current set, so you're out of luck."

"Besides," she continued, "I'm fourteen, putting me behind the wheel of a car would be ridiculous."

"You're sixteen, and you know as well as I that we spend plenty of time with you pretending to have at least two decades under your belt."

"But what I'm _best_ at playing is your underage lover…"

She tailed off and Jethro opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out to fill the suddenly awkward silence.

It was Monty who finally managed to break it "umm… or sister or daughter."

"Sure you don't want to learn to drive?"

"Positive."

Escaping from a conversation which had spun off on an uncomfortable tangent, the girl turned back to her computer, pushing what had been said wilfully from her mind to concentrate on the screen in front of her. There was displayed a chart of Hermes' share performance since it had gone public, and on the whole it seemed like the sort of ride investors tried to be on. That however wasn't her concern at the minute and the girl's eyes moved to the initial issue price and quantity of securities offered. Touching the icon to bring up her phone's calculator she did some rapid number crunching to get a rough value of how much currency Hermes could have expected to raise, once it had covered commissions to its underwriters and so on.

The Blackers had been chasing international income streams to Italy's Northern Separatists long enough for Monty to have gleaned a rough idea of what setting up an overseas office should cost someone. Though the capital Hermes could have garnered was substantial, by the time she had spread it out pro rata against their new investments, allowing for reconnaissance trips, setting up contacts and suppliers, paying any local fees and taxes put on foreign organizations and working through miles of governmental red tape, the figure seemed very low; low enough at least to cast a certain amount of greyness over the feasibility of such a venture. That leant more credibility to the theory that the public listing was merely a smokescreen to cover a larger investment from some other source.

The question that raised of course was: why? Why go to the trouble of throwing up a smokescreen in the first place, or for that matter; working so hard to keep Anagnos and Hermes at arm's length? The problem unfortunately wasn't likely to be _finding_ answers so much as nailing down the correct one.

With that thought in mind, Monty flicked back to the Financial Times' website and started to search for anything relating to _Marittima Italiana S.p.A._

* * *

><p>It was late afternoon before Jethro gave a quiet but triumphant "bingo" from where he was working.<p>

Looking up from her own position, Monty threw him an inquisitive glance. "Found something?"

Rising from his seat, her handler crossed the floor to stand at his girl's shoulder and placed his notepad on the desk beside her computer.

"Right there," he said, jabbing at the paper with a finger. "That line item is the one that unscrambles into 'elenignos _spedizione_'."

"The 'shipping' is new."

"Probably just needed to boost the letter count."

Not arguing the point, Monty opened up the spreadsheet from Monaco and ran a filter for the line item Jethro had given her. That brought up a solid chunk of data all by itself and her eyes immediately flicked to the dates column. Scrolling down the page she quickly found what she was looking for.

Highlighting the pertinent rows, she gestured to them for her handler. "There, that date's for the day before we played Baccarat. If this does pertain to Anagnos, and I see no reason why it should not, then our CEO "won" literally a week after Nick and Shamus were off'd."

Studying the payment roster over his girl's shoulder, Jethro finally said, "Even if it turns out that _Italiana_ is completely innocent, I'm thinking it'd still be worth our while to have a sniff around Anagnos anyway. Where're they headquartered?"

"Well it's Greek owned, but they're headquartered in Cyprus," Monty stared at the screen of her laptop unseeingly for a second as the mulled things over. "Honestly I'd like to have a bit more to go on… I'm going to run this schedule against what we got from Omurtak, see if any of the transport dates line up with payments."

Jethro nodded, "Speaking of whom, can you flick me a copy of his manifest? If there's a port as a drop point on there we may as well hit it on the way, see if there's any Anagnos ships or Hermes containers moving through."

Monty cocked an eyebrow, "We're not going to continue with Hermes here? They're the ones we know are dealing with Omurtak."

"That we do, but going to the parent company seems like the next logical step... especially when all the money seems to be headed that direction as well," returned her handler. Then he shrugged, "If we don't find anything there then we can always pick back up with Hermes in Istanbul; however I think there's enough pointing to Anagnos right now to make it more worthwhile chasing them."

"Besides," he continued, "we know Omurtak was probably involved with supplying ink and presses for the Franklins we found in Nick's wallet. He's been dealing with Hermes, and Hermes is related to Anagnos…"

"…and it was antifoul from a larger civilian ship that we found rubbed off onto _Foreplay_," finished Monty. "Fine, we'll head for Cyprus… but tomorrow. For now, I want to shake the internet a bit more and see what drops out regards the parent company. The more targeted we can be, the less alarm bells we're likely to set off."

Placing a hand on each one of his girl's shoulders, Jethro leaned over her so he could look her in the eye, "You've got a whole drive and boatride to do that, and whatever data we pick up in the ports to play with as well. Tonight, I think you should be getting a bit more sleep, because tomorrow we're back on the road."

**To Be Continued**


	4. CH04 Impressions

**AND THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction by Alfisti, based on works by Yu Aida. Nikias Stravropoulos is a fan character by theprodigalson._

* * *

><p><strong>CH04|Impressions<strong>

_Clink._

The sound of ice settling prompted Monty to lift her drink again and drain the last insipid dregs of cocktail and ice water from the glass. The Negroni put forth by this Cypriot bar-cum-cafe in Lemesos' tourist area had been passable, if nothing remarkable, but served its purpose of allowing her continue to occupy a seat. However all that remained of it after an hour were discoloured water and a few sad, slowly melting ice cubes.

Setting the empty glass down, the young spy swapped it for her novel lying on the table. Turning a page of the moth-eaten paperback, she glanced over its top at the pair of women at the bar, talking intensely as they had done ever since she surreptitiously tailed the older of the two into this establishment. Though even her augmented hearing couldn't quite make out what was being said, the bar was still reasonably unpopulated at this time of the afternoon, and it was easy to keep the two in view. They certainly made for an incongruous partnership: one was, Monty guessed, in her early to mid-thirties, slender, with short-cropped black hair and dressed fashionably in wet-look leggings and a white blouse overlaid by a tribal-pattern, knit vest.

The elder would have been at least sixty, stout and wearing an expensive, if not particularly daring, cream skirt-suit and calf-length brown boots. Despite her age, it was this woman who was doing most of the talking, and the observing girl waited patiently for her to finish. After a week of tailing Eleni Anagnos, the Blacker fratello, even its less sociable half, had a reasonable idea of when the shipping magnate was starting to reach the end of her rope. That particular piece of metaphorical flax didn't seem to be overly long to begin with, which meant this conversation should be wrapping up any time...

At the bar, Eleni put something down in front of her compatriot and said another few words before pushing her stool back and making for the door. As it swung shut, Monty left her book where it was and sidled up to the bar beside Anagnos's recent companion.

Leaning on the countertop with her back to the other woman, the girl signalled the sole bartender, "Another of the same, cheers."

As a fresh short glass was produced, Monty stole a quick glance behind herself, not that the speed was particularly necessary. The person seated there looked like one of the other cyborgs coming back from their first few rounds with the GIS: drained.

Still, that wasn't her issue and she returned to watching where the barman was just twisting an orange rind around his finger.

"That'll be sixteen Euro."

Withdrawing her wallet, Monty counted out the money before collecting her glass. As she turned back toward her table, someone touched her in the small of the back and the girl quirked a brief smile as a new conversation started up behind her.

"_You look like someone who could use another..." _

Picking up the book, she again found herself out of earshot of proceedings but Jethro, who had taken her position, seemed to have been successful in his approach and was settling onto a barstool next to Anagnos' former companion. Turning another page, the cyborg half heartedly followed the text, splitting her time between that and keeping an eye on her handler.

Now that the brunt of the work had shifted to her partner's court, Monty was able to study his current mark a little more closely. Though it was difficult to tell while she was sitting down, the woman looked to be quite tall with the couple of inches of heel in her boots making up for what was possibly a minor deficiency in the leg department. Her clothing, if not overly expensive, was stylish and well put together, with a slight quirky edge to it which would suggest someone out of, or at least associated with, the arts or design industry. Moreover it suggested someone who actually knew what they were doing when they stood in front of a mirror in the morning, rather than just copying from magazines or shop window mannequins. The whole ensemble was topped off by thick-framed glasses and a pair of large, gold ear-rings which now swung wildly as their wearer laughed and rested a hand on Jethro's suited shoulder.

Monty felt a stab of resentment flow through her as the touch landed upon her handler and she fought it down; nothing to get worked up about. This is what her partner did after all: drew people into his confidence to whittle money, information or whatever else he required at the time out of them... all part of the job. Besides, as Jethro had told her in London: she was the only girl he'd ever bothered hanging onto...

...none of which was helping prevent the rising urge to walk over there and tell the meddling biddy to back off.

Monty caught herself with that last thought and stepped heavily on her own emotions. Unprofessional and unwarranted, she certainly had no reason to be getting tetchy over an infringement on an imaginary relationship, a fiction which existed merely as a useful cover.

Taking a slightly larger sip from her fresh Negroni, the girl turned another page and set her attention to reading about the adventures of the sloop-of-war _HMS Hotspur_.

* * *

><p>Glancing at his watch, and noting almost an hour had passed since he'd arrived at the bar, Jethro drained the last of his "Monty" cocktail and pushed his stool back.<p>

"Well, I'm afraid I have another engagement, so must bid you adieu and raise you a Jesuit."

This was met with light laughter from his current companion, "Then I shall not take up anymore of your time. Thank you for the chat, I needed it."

At this the former con-artist threw her a mischievous grin, "The pleasure was mine, it's always refreshing to meet someone who can tell their Manet from their Monet..."

"...and not just by the different vowels," returned the woman, chuckling at her own poor joke. Pausing she rummaged around in her handbag and withdrew a business card. "Here, my gallery's address. If you find some free time, do come by and visit, I'd love to show you through our collection... And thank you for the drink. What did you call it again?"

"A 'Monty'."

"After a girl?"

"Sort of."

"She must be very special."

"She is."

Accepting the little rectangle of cardboard, Jethro tucked it into his inside pocket, "Cheers for the invite too, I might just take you up on that."

"Do... if I'm not in, just talk to whoever's on the front desk and they'll be able to track me down."

"Thank you again, and with that I must really be getting a roll on: no rest for the wicked and whatnot..."

The SWA agent threw her another, parting grin and turned toward the door, carefully avoiding making eye-contact with his cyborg on the other side of the bar; the last thing they needed was for Anagnos's contact to twig something larger might be going on.

Outside on the street, it took the better part of twenty minutes to walk to where he had left his rental Vespa scooter. Strapping on an open-face helmet and thumbing the little machine into life, Jethro made his way toward one of the wide, major thoroughfares which ran the parallel to the shoreline.

Lemesos, or Limassol by its former nomenclature was, like the rest of Cyprus to an extent, something of a tourist trap. Adjoined at one end to what was still British sovereign territory, this more recent strip of development was intended to capitalise on that ready market of holidaymakers. New construction filled it with hotels, shops and clubs, all intent on siphoning visitors from colder climes back from the beaches to where they could hand over their money.

In the wide open boulevards, the scooter's compact dimensions did not serve a great advantage, but as Jethro travelled west, new asphalt started to make way to the claustrophobic, narrow streets of Lemesos' old town.

Pulling into a back alleyway, Jethro piloted his vehicle through to a small, communal courtyard area. Before the advent of air-conditioning, this space had served as a source of light and breeze for the Colonial Era buildings which surrounded it. Now however, it was mostly used for storage, and by workers on break from the shops which had taken up residence in the ground floors of those same structures.

Parked in close to an outdoor bread oven, the fratello's dark grey Audi nestled comfortably amongst the detritus of retail and the handler positioned the Vespa across its prow. Taking advantage of the deserted area, he ferreted around inside the Allroad estate briefly, emerging with a slender, brown envelope. That was tucked into a concealed breast pocket, before making for the rear entrance of one of the surrounding stores.

The interior of the delicatessen was dimly lit, smelling faintly of spice, vinegar, olives and cheese. Squeezing between the sets of close-packed shelves, Jethro moved slowly toward the front of the store. Still in shadow, he made a survey of the street outside through the window before stepping out in front of the shop counter, causing the school-uniformed teenager behind it to jump in surprise.

"Jesus Christ, Mr. Blackall... I didn't hear you come in!"

Jethro offered her the same grin he'd used on Anagnos's contact earlier that day, "Practice, Constandina... plus I came in through the back way. Your father's outside I take it?"

Taking her hand away from where she'd been feigning a heart attack, Constandina leant forward on the counter, resting her elbows on the woodwork, "I told you, it's just 'Dina', and yes, he's out the front like always, otherwise I would've caught an ear bashing for 'taking the Lord's name in vain' or whatever."

"Thanks, I need to organise with him to keep the apartment longer."

The girl's face lit up at that, "So you and Megan are staying?"

"At least another fortnight."

"Fuck yes!"

"_Language_."

The last earned a pout as he exited onto the street.

Caesare Sofokleous was parked at a small table outside the deli he owned, the running of which was now mostly left to his offspring and, for the elder of those: their offspring. Seeing the younger man emerge from inside however, the rotund Cypriot waved him over. Pulling out the spare seat, usually occupied by one of Caesare's friends, Jethro started to extract his envelope, but the other man was already speaking.

"I really wish she wouldn't talk like that, but she is my youngest and a handful," he said, reaching under the table to extract a flat, hinged box. "Game?"

"Sure, why not. So you heard the conversation then..."

"Yes. Thank you for stepping in, being told off probably means more coming from someone other than me these days."

Reaching into the now open box, Jethro extracted the darker of the two sets of checkers and started arranging his part of the backgammon board, "Well I think it's probably just an age and stage thing. She's not a bad kid, just at that bratty point where they want to prove they're not under your thumb anymore."

"Your... girl... seems to be about Dina's age, but she's not like that."

The handler gave a wan smile, "_My_ girl had to grow up too quickly."

Picking up one of the dice to roll for first turn, a look of puzzlement crossed Sofokleous' face, "Speaking of whom, she is not with you right now?"

Jethro shook his head, "No, she's out doing... something... no idea where that lass runs off to at times, but she'll turn up."

"You have a lot of faith in her."

"I do."

Taking the opportunity to change the subject, the SWA man withdrew the envelope from his jacket, "While I remember, if you've no-one else booked, we'll need the apartment for at least another fortnight, this is payment in advance."

Counting Euro notes from the packet, Caesare returned, "Keep paying and you can stay as long as you like. You two are easier to deal with than the tourists, and maybe if I'm lucky your Megan will be a good influence on Constandina."

"Oh I don't think you want _all_ of her personality rubbing off," grinned Jethro, sending his own dice rattling across the wooden board. "Ah, bollocks, _one_. Your move Mr. Sofokleous."

* * *

><p>Public transport was unfortunately thin on the ground in Lemesos, and Monty's usual first choices of train or tram were nonexistent. Hence it was an aged bus which deposited the girl a good kilometre and a bit from her destination. That was fine by her, the walk could be used to think and throw off any potential tails. With the extra travel added in though, dusk had well and truly settled over the city before she made her way back to the Sofokleous' deli.<p>

Perched on the windowsill next to Jethro's chair, it was Constandina who spotted the approaching figure first. Leaning back she waved cheerily, prompting the SWA man in front of her to turn away from the table and gesture his own lackadaisical greeting. That he expanded upon as his cyborg drew up, slipping an arm around her waist and giving a quick squeeze.

"And how was the day luv?"

Responding to the contact, Monty laid her own arm across her seated partner's shoulders, "Long... long but productive, there's bit more I need to get done just to mop up the last of it, so I might head upstairs."

"No, stay!"

That was the teenager now sitting next to her handler, and Monty hesitated briefly while she gauged possible retorts, until Jethro gave a subtle shake of his head.

Sighing slightly, the cyborg extracted herself from her handlers' grasp and pulled up a chair to sit with the two adults, smoothing her dress as she did so. "Fine, but not for long, I really do need to square things away."

Beaming happily, Constandina hopped down from where she was sitting, "Mr Blackall, would you like a drink? Megan? _Pateras_?"

"And where will you be getting drinks from?" said Caesare from across the table.

"The shop."

"Are you paying for them? This is a business Dina, not your own personal larder."

The girl started to scowl but Jethro cut in, "Actually, I could use a drink so I'll pick this one up."

"No, I'll get it; my father can take the money out of my pay. So what would you like?"

Groaning inwardly at what she knew would need to be done next, Monty pushed herself out of her chair, "Wait up. Skipper, I'll see what's there and pick something for you."

Following Dina into the deli, the cyborg was soon in front of a drinks fridge, and reached in to retrieve two San Pellegrino "Chinotto" mineral waters.

"These will do."

"Aww, they're really expensive."

Monty gave a shrug, "You offered, and James doesn't generally go for sweet things."

"He doesn't?" asked the Cypriot girl. "Ok, I'll try one too..."

"...and a lemonade for my father," she finished.

Moving back to the front counter, Dina retrieved a barman's friend and popped the tops off the little glass bottles, Monty keeping half an eye on her actions to make sure nothing got slipped into the drinks.

As she hooked the opener onto the last metal cap, Constandina seemed to come to a decision and looked across at the other girl, "I've been meaning to ask: where'd you get that dress, was it a gift from Mr. Blackall?"

Cocking an eyebrow, the young spy glanced down at what she was wearing. The geometrically patterned ensemble was an in-house reproduction of Yves St Laurent's 1965 Mondrian day dress, albeit in a somewhat shorter and more fitted cut than the original. This particular one was the third iteration of the garment under Monty's care: the first had been shot full of holes in Mumbai, and the second destroyed on some mad-man's private island. The original _had_ actually been a gift from Jethro, intended to mark their instatement as an active fratello, but this one she'd bought herself. However...

"Yes, he gave this to me... could have been in London or Paris... Milan, Abu Dhabi or Singapore... no, I think it was Paris."

The other girl's face fell a bit, "Oh... you've been together for a while then."

"Since I left home."

_Again, technically not a lie._

"So what's between you guys? What is he to you?"

Monty paused as if considering that, "Partner."

"I thought he was your half-brother."

Fixing the nosey teenager with a flat look, the cyborg continued, "You asked what James was _to me_ and I told you. His job takes him all over the world, we never lived together before hand but I've been travelling with him since my parents died. I help him out here and there, and now he's more like a business partner than family."

Dina's face brightened at that, "And you never have to go to school?"

"Only by correspondence, so no."

"Wow... _lucky_!"

* * *

><p>Outside, Caesare rolled and moved two more tokens closer to his end of the board. Sweeping the two dice up he looked at the man opposite, "You know, she hasn't shut up about you two since you arrived."<p>

"Constandina?"

"Yes, she thinks this travelling for business is all incredibly sophisticated and glamorous."

"Then patently she's never been snowed in at an airport for seventy-two hours solid."

Behind Jethro, the deli door opened with the jangle to allow Monty, followed by Dina, out onto the street again. The cyborg put down a bottle of Chinotto in front of her handler before taking her own seat, while the other girl stepped around behind her father. Leaning over to place his drink on the table, she allowed the open top of her blouse to fall into Jethro's eye-line. He however kept studying the backgammon board and Monty gave a small, internal and exasperated sigh: that child was trying too hard.

From across the table Caesare eyed the cyborg, "Megan, has your brother here ever taught you to play _portes_?"

"_Portes_?"

He motioned at the board, "You may know it as backgammon."

Leaning back in her chair, the girl crossed one leg over the other and took a sip of her drink before replying, "No, I can't say he has."

"Probably a good thing I guess," returned the Cypriot with a toothy grin, "seeing as we're seven and one right now."

"In my defence," put in Jethro, "I'm from England and therefore not genetically hardwired to push tiddlywinks around a board every day of my life."

"Ha! Excuses! Still Miss. Blackall, I think I shall teach you. Next game?"

Monty glanced at her watch, "Actually, I think after this game I really am going to need to head upstairs and finish off my work. Perhaps some other time, we're going to be here for a while yet."

"I will hold you to that."

* * *

><p>Ten minutes later the score changed again, to eight and one, and Jethro placed his dice back in their little slot on the side of the board. "Ok, time to pack it in."<p>

"And I guess we should head home," added Caesare. "Or I will wind up in trouble... again. Lock up on your way through."

"Will do," replied Monty, picking up her own chair to put it inside the building.

Furniture stowed, the Sofokleous's left their guests behind, Constandina throwing a final "See you tomorrow Mr. Blackall! Megan!" back as the door jingled shut. Twisting the key in the lock and pushing the deadbolts home, Monty started to walk back through the darkened deli with her handler.

"I don't know how much longer I can put up with that girl."

Turning to look over his shoulder, Jethro threw her one of the half grins he saved for her and her alone, "Bear with it. The Cypriots are a sociable bunch and we're just going to have to work around that."

"She's like Kara," grumbled the cyborg. "But I have to keep being nice and can't just fob her off."

"The Buddhists say that people like that are created to teach you patience."

"More like a _test_ than a lesson."

Stepping through the store's back door and locking it behind themselves, the Blackers quickly double checked that the Audi was also secured and ascended a set of stairs to a wide, second floor patio area and the small apartment attached to it. Originally intended for the use of the store's owner, Caesare Sofokleous had moved his family out after the birth of their second child, instead renting it to travellers and tourists on a weekly basis.

Manoeuvring around a large outdoor table, Monty unlocked the retrofitted sliding doors and let herself inside. Flicking on the television to help mask the pair's speech, she retrieved her computer to start it booting.

"So? What did we find?" she asked as her handler slid the door closed behind himself.

Reaching into his jacket, Jethro pulled out the business card he'd acquired earlier and handed it to his partner, "The woman we met today is called Cythera Milonakis. She manages a small but exclusive private gallery in Nicosia, mostly dealing with works in an Impressionist style. It seems that Anagnos has been badgering her about a Goya she has on display."

Monty cocked an eyebrow, "Goya wasn't an Impressionist."

"No, but his works influenced a number of artists involved in the movement, so historically there _is_ a connection to be made."

Turning back to her computer to key in her password, the cyborg continued, "Has she caved yet?"

The handler shook his head, "Not yet, the painting's not technically for sale, but Anagnos is ramping up the pressure and Cythera is starting to wonder if she shouldn't just talk to the painting's owner, take the money and run."

"Lady doesn't like being told 'no'?"

"No, the lady does _not_ like being told 'no'. Though Cythera hasn't encountered it herself yet, there is rumour around the local art community that Anagnos has been known to resort to the occasional threat or blackmail."

At that, Monty swung around in her chair to face her partner directly, "So she's willing to get her hands dirty... I take it you have a plan."

"Don't I always?" returned Jethro, throwing his girl another half grin. "With a bit of work we should be able to get a good look around her office, dig up something we can use. First we're going to need an alias and a painting."

Settling back in her seat, his partner crossed one leg over the other and gave him a "do go on" look. Moving over beside her, Jethro leant against the table before continuing.

"Now, alias wise I was going to resurrect a pre-SWA one: 'Alex Harrington', art critic, gallery scout, fence on the side… so we'll also need to find a reason for you to tag along. As to the painting I've got a few possibilities in mind, which means narrowing down the options to a bait we're sure Anagnos will take."

Turning back to her computer, Monty cued up the log of places they'd tailed their mark to through the previous week, and her handler looked over her shoulder in silence while she scrolled through the entries.

"She did visit a couple of galleries," noted the girl. "I could do a bit of digging and find out what each one keeps on its books."

"Sounds like as good of a starting point as any," Jethro stood again and rubbed his chin, feeling the roughness of a day worth of stubble growing there. "Come to think of it, that new bloke The Agency picked up, Nikias… Stavropoulos… I think. His family's out of the Greek shipping business. I wonder if they've had any dealings with Anagnos."

"If you're thinking of shooting a message back and asking I'm going to have to say no; I am _not _comfortable with the idea of someone buying their way into the SWA and I _certainly_ don't want them knowing about anything we personally are pursuing."

Taking a moment to play Devil's Advocate, her handler leaned back on the table and folded his arms, "I don't know, at least it helps pay the bills... especially since Italy's looking like it may have trouble finding space in the budget for luxuries like a cyborg program in the next year or so."

"That's exactly what concerns me," returned the girl, "that the Agency may let the little Euro signs in their eyes get in the way of running a proper background and security check… amongst other issues."

"Either way," she continued, "it would simply take too long to get an RFI lodged, have it filled and get it back here."

"Touché," conceded Jethro. "If you go through our logs, I'll note down what happened today."

Suddenly he grinned again, "Then tomorrow I think we need to go exercise our thrifting muscles."

* * *

><p>Whatever his boyhood imaginings of life as an international man of mystery had been, Jethro thought, they had probably involved fast cars and beautiful women, wearing minimal clothing. What they likely <em>hadn't<em> included was sifting through old canvasses at an antiques store. Not that it was a past time he was particularly adverse to, but the irony of the situation wasn't lost either. Pushing up the sleeves on the light knit sweater which had taken the place of his suit jacket, the handler moved to the next pile of dusty paintings.

"How about this?"

Looking up from the rack he was sorting through, Jethro turned to where his cyborg had a realistic portrait of a young woman propped up in front of her.

_Well one out of three wasn't bad._

There was the other reason for this expedition: quite aside from the job-related aspect, after a week of operating reasonably independent of each other, today was a chance to spend some time with this girl whom, for better or for worse, he now shared his life with. Having had to watch him flirt with Anagnos's gallery manager the previous day, it certainly wouldn't hurt to lavish a bit of attention on _her_ either.

As he stepped over inspect the finding, Monty continued, "The fixings on the back are about right for late 19th Century France, and the clothing of the subject would support that period as well. If it's the right size, then perhaps for the Monet option?"

"I'd prefer not to go with Monet if we can avoid it."

"No?"

"Too prolific and not exclusive enough, Monets are like arses: everybody has one."

Producing a small tape-measure, Jethro crouched down and quickly checked the painting's dimensions.

"It's about half an inch under length," he stated finally, standing up again, "Make a note though, if we don't find anything better we can come back to it and re-stretch the canvas."

"I think you're going to be hard pressed to find something exactly the right age and size Skipper," stated the cyborg.

"Probably, but we've got all day to look, literally..." replied her handler, lifting the dusty portrait from his girl's grasp and placing it back in its rack, "…so we may as well use the time."

"At least we've got a bit of elbow room," put in Monty. "Our CEO seems to have a thing for the Impressionists, but some of those galleries being visited were dedicated more broadly to modern art as well."

"Modern art and Impressionists... sounds like my type of woman."

That earned him a scowl.

Removing the black felt trilby he wore, Jethro ran a hand through his hair before replacing the hat back on his head, "Really though, I'd like to avoid casting our net too wide. Say 'Impressionist' and there's a reasonably limited scope, 'modern art' isn't just broad, but tends to polarize opinions as well."

As he turned back to his own rack of paintings, Monty finished where she was and walked over to join him, "Don't forget we still need to find paints and equipment."

"Lets figure out what we're duplicating first, there's no point buying tubes of acrylics if what I need to be doing is mixing oils by hand. One of the nice things about forging for the black market is that end buyers are less likely to have their paintings authenticated; but that's no reason to be sloppy about it. That's just an insult to the original artist, not to mention dangerous..."

"...now this looks hopeful," continued the handler, extracting another canvas, "just about the right size for a Cézanne."

"Oh, there's a Cézanne option now as _well_... he was a _post_-impressionist."

Jethro tilted the painting forward in order to inspect the fixings on the back, "He was in his later years; the work I'm thinking of is from his early career."

Monty leaned back against another painting rack and fixed him with a flat look, "And this didn't come up before _because?_"

The handler shrugged, "I forgot about it."

"_Reall_y?"

"It was one of my earlier jobs and not a particularly spectacular one at that. I was still young enough to play a student, so painted the replica during the National Gallery's open hours; it's not unusual practice for art students to learn by copying other artists' work. Then slipped in, grabbed the original and the canvas the white collar division "recovered" was the forgery. As far as I know it's _still_ hanging in Washington."

"And you know where the actual original is? It's not about to suddenly pop up at Christies and make our lives difficult?"

"All the fence told me was that it went to Russia, in which case we can probably be fairly comfortable it won't arrive on the legitimate art market any time soon..." Jethro lifted the painting back into its rack, "...either way, the fixings up the back of that one are wrong for early Cézanne."

"So we keep looking."

* * *

><p>"You're positive we'll get away with using tubes," It was a statement, not a question.<p>

Jethro paused from what he was doing, brush paused in mid-air, and looked over to where his girl was working on the outdoor table. In an effort to keep their living space habitable, the handler had taken to painting _plein air_ on the patio, with his canvas angled back toward the apartment and away from the courtyard's surrounding windows.

"'Without tubes of paint, there would be no Impressionism', Pierre-Auguste Renoir."

"You know what I meant."

Still holding the brush, he eyed the little metal tubes lying beside him, "Modern paints are not exactly ideal I'll admit. However, we don't have the time or resources right now to go chasing up period-correct pigments."

In the end, the fratello had returned to purchase the Cézanne sized canvas, and a day had been lost re-fixing it to its wooden backing frame in period and artist correct fashion. On the upside, the same store had also coughed up a used easel and pallet board for a couple of Euro, which had reduced the items to be purchased from an art supplier to minor equipment and consumables. Now with a white base coat concealing the previous image, Jethro was starting to block out the dark composition which was the structure of Paul Cézanne's _The Artist's Father Reading __L'Événement,_ with help from a series of photos strung above his work.

Returning to her own endeavours, Monty picked up the novel-sized book which had been resting in front of her, then turned to her laptop to type out another note. While her current study of Russian was probably less important overall than other work still backlogged, there was good reason to keep anything job related off her screen…

From below came the sound or the deli's rear door opening and closing, followed by the clop of a shoe on the wooden stairs leading to the Blackers' apartment.

…_and that was it._

A few seconds later, Caesare Sofokleous' bald pate appeared above the patio's floor level as he laboured his way up the stair.

"Well this is a very relaxed sight," intoned the Cypriot. "I thought you were here on business?"

Looking around from behind his canvas again, Jethro grinned, "We are, but my next engagement was pushed back a week, so it seemed like a good chance to take a break."

"You do not have a home or family to return to?"

This time it was Monty who answered, "We do, but it's a day to travel there, and a day to return. Add in a day cleaning and a couple of days running around catching up with people when we get back… for the week it's just not worth the effort."

"Besides," added her partner, "we've been on the road so long now that going home just feels claustrophobic."

Caesare shook his head, "Ah you are sad you English, you should always have friends and family nearby… but, each to their own, as they say."

The man paused, and his countenance changed as a toothy grin spread across his face, "However, I shall not complain for it gives me time for this! Miss Blackall, put away whatever it is you are doing as I have come to teach something much more important: how to play _portes_!"

As the Cypriot took a seat at the table and started to unfold his well-worn backgammon board, Jethro retreated behind his work, using the canvas to hide his silent laughter.

Closing the lid of her computer, placing the book on top of it and pushing both to one side, Monty watched as the game board was opened and gave an internal sigh, at least this wasn't going to cut into actual work time.

Now Caesare picked up a set of white chips and started placing them on the elongated triangles which marked out the board, "You take the black ones and set them up as a mirror of mine, so five on this point, then three... another five here and two."

While Monty started to place her checkers neatly down as instructed, their landlord continued, "Now, the object of the game is to move your 'men' around the board, in your case clockwise..." he gestured with his hand, "...until they are all in the final quarter, or your 'inner table'. Then you may start removing them from play."

"There's two dice, when you roll you can either move one checker the full amount shown, or two checkers, one for each dice's value. If you roll doublets then it's the equivalent of two goes, so you get the equivalent of four dice values to use."

"And this other one?" Queried Monty, picking up another dice with exponentials of two up to sixty-four printed on it.

"Doubling cube... don't worry about that for now," replied Caesare, taking it back and returning it to its slot. "Now when you move, you can land on a point that is clear or has your men on it, but not on a point with an opponent's men occupying it. The only exception is if there's a blot... a single marker. If you land on a point with a blot, that checker will be moved to the centre of the board or 'bar'. In order to remove that man from the bar, your opponent then has to roll a number so as to land on a point which is not blocked on their outer table."

"So it's a game of luck, sounds easy enough," said Monty, resting her chin on her knuckles and cocking an eyebrow. "What's the catch?"

"There is no catch."

"There's _always_ a catch, so spill."

Her opponent evaluated the girl across from him for a long second, before chuckling to himself and leaning back in his chair, hairy forearms folded, "There _is_ a certain amount of strategy involved, but the only real way to learn that is to play; so let us play! Roll high for first move."

Picking up a single dice, Monty shook it briefly in her hand and sent it skittering across the board. Bouncing off the far wall of the open box it slid to a halt, five small dots pointed skyward.

Wordlessly, Sofokleous rattled his own dice across the inlayed wood, "Two, your play Miss. Blackall."

Giving a thin smile, the cyborg gathered up both dice in their cup and rolled...

Ten minutes later the board was still almost half full, but all the men remaining were the same colour, with only two dark markers resting in their "home" slot.

Seeing an opportunity to extract herself from proceedings, Monty dropped both her dice back in their cup, "I think I might call it a day there and try again tomorrow."

"No, no, no, no, no!" returned Caesare, eyes alight. "You said yourself there was a catch, look at what I did, learn, apply what you see! I have been playing _portes_ since almost before I could walk, you will not beat me in the first game."

Groaning internally, the girl never the less moved the dice cup to one side again and started re-setting the board, stealing a glance at her handler as she did so.

_The things I put up with for you._

The second game went much like the first, as did the third...

...and the fourth.

By the fifth though, the gap had started to close and it tightened even further with the sixth round, by which time her Cypriot teacher was beaming from ear to ear as his unwilling pupil started to catch on.

"Ah Mr. Blackall, you must be doing something right in your travels."

With that, much to the new star student's chagrin, he once again started setting up the board.

As Monty picked up her dice cup to roll first move... again... there was a thud of heavy footfalls on wood, accompanied the unnerving clatter and creak of metal as the stairs, fixed to the side of the old building, flexed under somebody's weight. The cyborg's countenance didn't change but the first dribble of combat drugs started to flow through her system, washing away all other concerns and readying her body for a fight. Jethro was her first priority, she could flip the table up to provide a few seconds cover while she got to him then...

"Hey Mr. Blackall, hey all."

...Monty relaxed again, letting her weight come off the balls of her feet and back onto her chair as Constandina slouched onto the deck and dumped her school bag by the handrail.

"What are you all doing?"

"Your father's teaching me backgammon," replied the cyborg quickly. "Take a seat."

Unfortunately, the high schooler seemed less than impressed, "Fuck that. _Lame_..."

"Language Dina!"

"...that's an old man's game, why would you want to play _that_. What are you doing Mr. Blackall?"

"Take a seat anyway, I'll get some drinks from downstairs," but it was too late and Monty winced internally as the other girl found some energy from somewhere and scooted around to Jethro's side of the canvas.

"Wow Mr. Blackall, I didn't know you were an artist."

Putting his brush down, Jethro wiped his hands on a cloth and threw it over the top of his easel, covering the photos there, "Well there's not much chance to indulge in the hobby on the road, but I dabble."

"What are you painting?"

At that the handler threw her a cheeky smirk, "For me to know and you not to."

Stepping out from behind the canvas he continued, "Either way, that's it for the day; the oils need time to dry for a bit and that drink doesn't sound like a bad idea."

Instead of sitting down, Constandina headed for the stairs, "I'll get them!"

Monty started to rise, "Wait up, I'll give you a hand." but was stopped by a thick paw on her wrist.

"Leave her go, we have another round to play."

Still standing, Jethro gave her a wry smile, "Stay here, I'll go."

* * *

><p>"That girl is a bloody liability."<p>

Jethro paused from where he was carrying his easel in out of the night air and slid the door closed, "Well I seem to remember _somebody_ was supposed to intercept anyone before they arrived on the wrong side of the canvas."

Monty gave her handler an unimpressed look, "You said yourself that we need to keep these people onside, which means treating them with kid gloves; there's only so much I can do with that. Constandina's father has trouble controlling her and he _is_ allowed to be nasty."

Putting the easel down, Jethro pinched the bridge of his nose. Having had her memory wiped as part of the conditioning and conversion process at the SWA, his cyborg had never technically experienced a childhood. The vast majority of the rest of her time was spent in the company of adults, which had skewed her perspective somewhat. All he had seen today was a fairly normal teenager. Hell, he could remember acting similarly, though his own teenage rebellion had admittedly come more in the form of amusingly petty criminality and trickery.

Stepping over to where his girl now sat in front of her computer, the spy put a hand on each of her shoulders and started massaging the dense, artificial muscles in her upper back. "Well, I doubt there was any real harm done this time around. She only saw the blocking and I think I got the photos of Cézanne's work covered up fast enough."

All he got in reply was a quiet "humph".

"That said, tomorrow you should possibly go pick up another canvas."

Now Monty tilted her head back to eye the man standing over her, "Another antique?"

"That would preferable, but new will do if you can't find anything the same size as the current one."

"Reasoning?"

Somewhat to his cyborg's disappointment, Jethro stopped the massage and circled around to lean on the table in front of her, "It was something I was considering doing anyway, and our little issue today sort of sealed the deal."

Monty made face at that but said nothing, so he continued, "It'd be worth doing a second painting to leave with the Sofokleous's... something simple. That way when Constandina goes gossiping to her friends she can talk about 'her guest the artist and the awesome painting he left' as opposed to 'her guest the artist and the mysterious painting she never saw finished'. Since she's already seen the blocking I'll have to use a similar layout and base pallet, but that's hardly the end of the world."

"Guess I'll take a shopping trip tomorrow then, is there anything else you'll want?"

"Another Burnt Sienna?"

"I'll grab a couple more tubes of what you're using."

With that, Monty turned back to her computer screen on which was displayed one of the photos from the fratello's final port visit in Turkey. That particular expedition had so far proven to be a bit of a dead end. The drop point from Omurtak's manifest hadn't seen any activity while they were there and no known Anagnos owned ships had made a showing in the harbour either. Now the cyborg was trawling through literally hundreds of photos in the hopes of picking up something which had been missed. Aside from that she still needed to pull schedules for each ship in the harbour and run them against the manifest as well as their owners against the Monaco drive... and the infuriating loss of her days was not helping in the slightest. In that respect, picking up art supplies would almost be a relief by simple virtue of being something directly job related to pursue during daylight hours.

Thinking of something else, the cyborg turned again to her partner, "Can you manage without me for a bit longer tomorrow?"

Jethro thought about this for a second, "I think so, Caesare said he was headed to a friend's and Dina should be at school again."

Monty nodded, "Ok, in that case I might get an earlier start and take a look at some of the places Eleni has been visiting, see which ones might be suitable for making contact."

"If you could, concentrate on galleries with more of an Impressionist bent," put in her handler. "If there's a bit of similar art hanging it will be easier to create Alex a plausible story around the Cézanne... you know what else to look for."

"Are we going to have me accompany you for the first meeting?"

Jethro considered this, "I don't know yet, having the two of us there first time might feel a bit hard-sell, but it would also make it easier for me to bring you in later..." he rubbed his cheek, "...go have your hunt and give us some options for each location, I'll have a think on how we approach Eleni. Hopefully by the end of it we should be able to distil out a plan of attack."

Monty studied him for a second, "Give me something to work from: what was Alex Harrington's normal MO? Was he well enough known that we'll need to follow a similar pattern for continuity's sake?"

Taking a seat opposite his girl, the handler thought for a second, "Well, it's been a few years since Alex's last appearance, and he only really used to get broken out to offload things which, for some reason or another, I couldn't dispose of through one of the more established fences. The way he operated also meant that he should have remained relatively unsung outside of those he dealt with directly…"

"So that's a no?"

"People can change the way they operate over time, but it would certainly be worth keeping at least a few aspects similar."

"Ok then, give me the high points."

* * *

><p>"You know, he never counted himself as one of the Impressionists."<p>

Eleni Anagnos turned away from the Manet bar scene she was studying to eye the speaker; a slender man in a slate-grey suit, thick black framed glasses and idly twirling a hat in one hand. Aside from the two of them, the only other occupants of this gallery's empty, white interior were a young woman wearing a Mondrian-pattern dress with a red, gossamer scarf around her neck, and Eleni's own omnipresent driver/bodyguard. The latter's hand was now slipping closer to his concealed Glock, and the Anagnos Shipping CEO decided to let him stay on alert for now.

"Édouard may not have been an Impressionist himself," she returned, "but he was heavily involved with the movement and, like Goya, had a great influence on their style… I take it you realise exactly who I am?"

"I wouldn't have bothered approaching you otherwise, Ms. Anagnos."

"Well then," said the CEO coolly, "would you be so kind as to return the favour?"

The man gave her a confident, cheeky grin.

"Harrington, Alex Harrington," replied Jethro, extending a hand, "and I'd like to be your art broker."

Looking unimpressed, the woman eyed the proffered appendage like it had come from another planet. After a couple of seconds Jethro wiggled his fingers once, and when that solicited no response, shrugged nonchalantly and dropped his arm again.

Feeling that she'd safely gained the advantage Anagnos continued, "Well that's very nice Mister Harrington, but I already have people who can cater for my art collecting needs."

Retaining his slightly cocky stance, the former conman gave a bemused expression, "And that's fine, you can choose to keep using them, I won't infringe on their turf. However, my clients don't choose me; I choose them, and do you know why I can afford to do that? Because I can offer pieces no-one else can, and because I only offer them those I think it will appreciate the effort."

"Just what makes you believe I fit into that category..."

"You're standing in an Impressionist gallery Ms. Anagnos, you had money to burn in Monaco and have been studying this Manet for the last ten minutes," stated Jethro, taking on a slightly more serious air. "That tells me three things: one is that you take in interest in the Impressionist movement, the second is that you have the means to indulge that interest, and the third is that it isn't just the Impressionists whom you follow, but also those surrounding them and their influences; your mention of Goya reinforces that opinion."

"And if I am just here on a whim?"

Jethro's cocksure expression returned, "Ms. Anagnos, you don't actually think this meeting was random happenstance do you?" he glanced at the bodyguard standing by the door. "If I were you I would look to replacing my security detail... quite aside from which, as a wealthy public figure, the art world _does_ take notice of what you buy, both above and below board."

Now the CEO fixed the handler with a hard stare, but there was curiosity mixed into it as well, "Are you threatening me with blackmail Mister Harrington?"

"Far from it," replied 'Harrington', his voice becoming steady and slightly conspiratorial. "I'm just out to make a few quid, if art gets to those who appreciate it in the process, then so much the better."

At that, for the first time since the conversation began, Eleni let a small smile slip, "It always comes down to money doesn't it? I'm a business woman Mr. Harrington, and it's refreshing to find someone who admits that the art business is a business. Thank you, for your candour."

"I find those who have the means to appreciate _real_ art are rarely those given to whimsy."

"Then patently you've not endured time with Europe's old money… Fine, you have me intrigued. What can you offer?"

_Snap._ The trap closed. That was what Jethro had been waiting for, he hadn't needed to push the painting on her, his target had asked about it. The hook was in and now he just had to land his whale.

"I take it you are familiar with the work of Paul Cézanne?"

"Of course."

"And his dark-period painting _'The Artist's Father Reading __L'Événement'?"_

Eleni gave him a hard look, "I saw it hanging in the National Gallery, Washington."

A conspiratorial grin now spread across the con-artist's face, "Well, I can tell you that the one in Washington is a forgery."

Silence.

"Don't believe me? You said you had your own contacts, get some of the more... flexible... of them to have a dig. You will find that the original _L'Événement_ painting was stolen over a decade ago, and fenced somewhere in Europe."

Now the CEO seemed to be thinking, "That would take time."

Jethro shrugged, "Take all the time you need, we can arrange another meeting, say a week from now, to see if you want to take things further. Of course, I make no guarantees of holding the piece till then."

"I assume you're reminding me of other buyers in the wings?"

The grin returned, "Give credit where's it's due: I'd be a pretty poor businessman if I didn't play every angle available to me. However, it bears noting that I'm here in Cyprus, in person… not elsewhere."

"And if I am interested, do you have a preferred meeting place?"

"Somewhere secure, somewhere which is part of your regular routine and during business hours would be preferred... I can arrange covers to suit as need be."

Eleni considered this for a moment, then seemed to reach a decision, "I wish to inspect what you have, bring it to my offices Friday. If it meets my assessment then we may be in business."

"I'll be there."

"Thankyou Mr. Harrington, I trust there will not be any hiccups."

With that the shipping magnate turned away and headed for the door, collecting her guard on the way out, who escorted her to the black Range Rover parked outside.

Continuing his slow circuit of the gallery's walls, Jethro eventually made his way to where Monty was studying a trio of Manet's still life works. As he did so, the former crook was careful to keep his face obscured to where his partner had previously informed him the establishment's solitary area CCTV camera was. The thought caused him to quirk a small smile: _playing all the angles__..._

Still looking at the painting, the girl said quietly as he pulled up beside her, "Sounded hopeful." In this quiet and hard-surfaced space, the cyborg had been able to hear every word of the earlier conversation.

Making no physical indication he had been spoken to, her handler replied, "She'll want a couple of days to madly ring around contacts about the Washington theft, but at least we avoided being fobbed off indefinitely."

"Speaking from experience?"

"Everyone has to learn sometime."

Without replying, his cyborg moved on in the direction she had been travelling and a minute or so later her partner continued his opposing circuit, carrying him back toward the gallery entrance. Turning away from the final painting, Jethro spun the black trilby in his hand and flipped the thing jauntily onto his head, the movement obscuring his face from the second camera focused on the doorway as he exited.

Outside, the handler switched the prop spectacles for his Wayfarers, folding the former away into an inside pocket. Ambling up the main-street, he soon turned into one of Old Lemesos' narrow alleys. Aside from its minimal use of security cameras, proximity to this flagstone and asphalt maze had been another reason his cyborg chose the gallery as a first contact point. Wending back through the buildings he eventually arrived at a small, sun dappled square. Parked where he had left it was the rental Vespa, against a wall it shared with a small café serving the few miss-matched table/umbrella combinations clustered near its doorway. Realising that breakfast had been all too long ago, Jethro took a seat.

He had just sent the waiter away with an order when his partner appeared between two buildings on the far boundary. Pausing momentarily to survey the space, she stepped out into the mosaic of light cast by the branches above her. In her own ploy to keep her features concealed leaving the gallery, Monty wore a set of large, white framed sunglasses, with the red gossamer scarf tied over her hair. Now the latter's long, loose ends billowed out behind her as she crunched across the gravel floor, through the ever changing pattern of light and shade.

As she approached, and not for the first time, Jethro wondered if the SWA's medical boffins hadn't purposely given him a glamorous girl to match his perceivably glamorous, jet-set role.

"Are you really certain you have time to be lounging around out here?"

_Moment, ruined._

Standing, he pulled a chair out for her, "I'm certain. Sit down, take the weight off your brains."

Taking the seat, Monty placed an elbow on the table to prop her head up with a hand, whilst the other removed her sunglasses, toying with them so that the back of the frame-arm rested just between her lips.

Cocking an eyebrow, she studied her handler from behind heavily lidded eyes, "I assume then that she didn't want to meet tomorrow."

The spy shook his head, "Three days."

"That doesn't leave much contingency for us; you still need to finish that painting yet."

Monty had not been happy when her handler voiced his intention to meet with Eleni Anagnos before completing the painting to be used as bait. Her point was valid too: the most delicate parts of the operation were still to come, and if something went wrong there would be no way to complete another canvas before their deadline. By the same token however, Jethro was starting to wonder how much longer the pair could retain their apartment whilst keeping their cover story there believable. The extra space over a hotel room, not to mention the nearby facilities that accommodation offered, were necessary to pull off this particular bit of falsified artwork.

"Then we'll just need to be extra careful."

"You'll forgive me for not being entirely filled with confidence," deadpanned the girl.

Throwing her the half grin, Jethro leaned back in his seat, "Well if it helps, I've already ordered lunch for the both of us, so that should save a good ten minutes for you."

That garnered another flat look, "I take it if you're only going to get cracking on that canvas this afternoon, then it won't be ready for cooking tonight? Because if not, I'm going to go have a nose around our lady's offices and try to get a bit of a feel for the place."

Her handler considered this briefly, "You may as well. I could _feasibly_ finish this evening, but it'd be a rush job."

"You really will be cutting everything uncomfortably fine."

He shrugged, "Damned if we do, damned if we don't this time around I think."

* * *

><p>Crouched in the shadows, wearing what Jethro referred to as her "cat burglar" outfit, Monty made one last visual sweep along the route she intended to take... or at least what parts of it were in view. It was a rudimentary measure at best: just because she couldn't see any major obstacles didn't mean they weren't there, but at least the close streets and buildings of Lemesos' old town would make her job easier. The flip side of that coin of course was that this was a residential area, and at 3am in the morning she would need to be very careful to remain a good citizen and not wake the neighbours.<p>

Sighing slightly, she put the binoculars away in their hard leather case and slung it diagonally across her body. Skulking about at night was _not_ the Blackers' preferred method of doing reconnaissance work. Attempting to remain concealed, rather than hiding in plain sight and letting people draw their own conclusions, in its own ironic way, upped the chances of being recognised as clandestine agents.

Unfortunately, it was also really the only option right now for scoping out the Anagnos offices. Simply walking in and 'getting lost' wasn't viable, as both Blackers would be required to present again in the next few days. Nor was doing a _Sadie_, Anagnos ran a system by which its cleaners were locked in for the night. _Couriers Please_ was out as again both fratello members would need to show their faces at the company, and so too was _Blind Man's Bluff_... not least because neither Monty nor Jethro could think of where to get a dog on such short notice. A number of other ideas had gone the same way, which left her here on a rooftop with the cold, early winter air blowing through her thin skivvy top.

Standing and dusting some imaginary dirt off her knees, the cyborg set off at a steady lope toward the end of the roof and dropped off the precipice. Falling a storey onto the garden wall below she rolled to absorb the impact and continued along the slender top of the stonework in one smooth movement. Not stopping as she reached the next building the girl vaulted up and sideways, wedging her foot into a window sill and propelling herself upward again so she could grab the edge of the roof and flip over onto the tiles.

In the darkness, Monty quirked a small, self-satisfied smile; even in her own "de-tuned" state, she could easily have jumped the full distance in one go. But any cyborg could do that: it took skill and talent to do it quietly... or to follow the same route without recourse to the extra strength her artificial muscles provided. If some night owl happened to glance out their window, her movements should seem merely unusual rather than superhuman.

Soon she dropped into the rhythm of her run, flowing across the cityscape, leaving only the lightest of footprints. Never slowing, never touching the ground. This felt natural, almost second nature and the girl was able to divert some of her attention elsewhere, eyes darting back and forth to scan her surrounds...

...which was why she spotted the security camera before it spotted her.

Dropping from another rooftop, Monty caught the small box in the corner of her eye and twisted desperately around to grab the eve of the building she'd just stepped off, arresting what had been a graceful curved trajectory and sending her thudding into the stonework. The girl grunted at the impact as she hung next to the camera watching the patio area she had been about to land on.

_Well, this complicated matters._

Hauling herself back up over the edge of the drop, the cyborg moved back into a less exposed position and assessed her options. She was currently on the flat top of a reasonably modern office block. Across the street was a row of shops, their metal roof a storey or so below her. The jump there would be easy but the landing would be loud and the structure not guaranteed to withstand her impact. In the other direction, separated from her own building by a vehicle access and two storeys higher, was another set of brick offices. She could get back on track from there, but it had to be a good three floor drop onto the next rooftop in the direction she would want to travel. What it also had though were vertical concrete sunshades jutting out from each set of windows, which may be climbable.

Pulling out her binoculars again, Monty gave the building a closer look; there was a solitary camera on one corner, pointed down into the vehicle access way. If she backtracked a little she should be able to stay out of its sightline. Listening intently however, she could hear voices rising out of the concrete depths and the sound of a running engine. Seemingly someone else had their own business to be done in the small hours. Unfortunately, sticking her nose over the edge of the roof would risk exposure, not to mention possibly putting her in the security camera's vision.

Slinking into the shadow of an air conditioning unit, Monty settled in to wait.

Ten minutes passed.

Then fifteen, but still the voices could be heard.

At the twenty minute mark the girl gave a frustrated growl, she didn't have any more time to waste, not to mention it was getting bloody cold up on this rooftop. On the upside, thanks to the longer nights this late in the year, she had a little more time to play in the darkness, but not _that_ much more.

_Time to take a risk._

Jogging back along the flat roof, the cyborg started to gather momentum, her course scribing a wide arc which carried her toward the edge of the chasm between buildings. As she hit the parapet she launched herself out into space, sailing across the void before catching the steel sunshade support structure with a hand and setting the whole thing vibrating.

Far below the voices stopped, and Monty pressed herself up against one of the large vertical slabs of concrete, desperately hoping that she was far enough away that those below wouldn't be able to see past it.

Heart thumping seconds crawled past, but slowly the conversation started up again and the cyborg cautiously began to haul herself toward the rooftop.

Including the rest of the detour it took another twenty minutes to reach Anagnos' headquarters and Monty set up on the opposite side of the street with her binoculars. Unfortunately the Canon DSLR was too fragile and unwieldy to take on runs like this, so the fratello would instead be relying on her eyes and memory.

Like many of the other newer constructions around the area, the Anagnos building was an uninspired four storey brick affair; though its exterior had been rendered in some past attempt to tart the place up a bit. It certainly was not what would have been expected for the headquarters of a company worth the better part of a billion Euro. What did however differentiate it was the light-weight structure apparently tacked onto the roof. A third the size of the rest of the building's footprint, it left a large area open to the sky, with full height glazing overlooking the resulting rudimentary terrace. Security lights dimly illuminated the interior and Monty scanned its contents: expensive furniture, a proper coffee machine... seemingly these were the executive offices.

Shifting her focus outward, Monty checked the structure's exterior. Two security cameras covered the entire patio area and... she wriggled over to the roof edge... yes, there were cameras on each corner of the building to cover it 360 degrees at street level. Assumedly there would be a guard's desk somewhere and maybe a mobile company employed to drive past every half-hour or so as part of a regular route. Alarms on doors and windows, perhaps motion detectors or camera units inside...

Lifting her binoculars again, the girl took a closer look into one of the offices facing her... there, sure enough, wedged into a corner was a little white box with a green light on the front: high-ish security then but without going overboard, slightly above average fare for a large corporate with little more than physical property loss to worry about.

_Time to get a look at the other side._

Ten more minutes saw her overlooking the Anagnos office's opposite face. Here the glass wall of the rooftop structure was flush with the concrete render below it. A concrete portion, set just off-centre along the wall, assumedly held elevator plant equipment, a fire stair or both. On one side of where it bisected the construction, Monty could make out what appeared to be a board or meeting room, on the other...

_That has to be Eleni's office._

The office was large with a wide, closed-front desk and tall-backed chair faced away from the glazing. No computer on the desk, but that didn't mean much: it could be a laptop and stowed away, or Eleni could have taken it home. The interior dividing walls appeared solid bar two, full height windows cut into the corners of the far side, the cyborg guessed so that the CEO could see if anyone was coming to visit her. No visible security, though there was most likely at least a camera or motion detector covering the hallway outside…

Monty pushed her left sleeve up slightly, peering at the watch on her wrist. In the darkness she could just make out the unlumed vintage Camaro's face; had she not been a cyborg she wouldn't have been able to see a thing. Her sight wasn't as good as full night-vision, but it was enough to read that there were at least another two hours or so before daybreak. However humanity had long ceased timing its workday by the sun.

_Time to leave._

* * *

><p>Dawn was just starting to lighten the sky when Monty returned, via a different route from the one she had used on the way out, to the Blackers' rented apartment. Moving as silently as possible, the cyborg washed quickly before putting a simple cotton sleep shirt and shorts on and slipped into bed beside her partner. As she pulled the covers up there was a soft noise from the other form on the mattress and Jethro rolled over to look at her blearily across the pillows.<p>

"You're back," he mumbled. "How was it?"

"What are _you_ doing awake."

"Late one painting... then trouble passing out."

"Well roll over and go to sleep."

With that, Monty turned over herself, away from her handler, mentally checking off what she still had left to do over the next two days. Half a minute later she felt the bed move and creak as Jethro took her advice and rolled to face the other direction. Fairly soon his breathing settled into the steady rhythm of a deep slumber; she would let him sleep in a bit the next morning. The last thing they needed was him making a mistake now through simple fatigue.

* * *

><p>"So was your late night worth it?"<p>

Putting down his bowl of fruit and yoghurt, kindly brought around by Constandina that morning before school, Jethro gave a yawn and gestured toward where the easel was facing the wall, "Take a look for yourself."

Leaving her own breakfast for a minute, Monty walked over to where her handler's forgery faced the wall and turned the arrangement so she could see his handy work. On the almost two metre tall canvas sat an older man, perched in a high-backed, white chair. Legs crossed, he was seemingly engrossed in reading his newspaper: the French radical journal _L'Événement_. Studying the painting closely and careful not to touch the still wet oils, the cyborg's eyes flicked to the photos pegged above her partner's forgery-in-progress and back to the painting itself.

"Looks just about done to me," she said finally, "I take it the colours will come good once we age it."

Jethro nodded, "It's the phenol formaldehyde, with some heat that fogginess should clear away."

"Should?"

"_Will_."

Swallowing another mouthful of his Greek breakfast, her handler continued, "I'll run another eye over it this morning, make any final tweaks and if nothing diabolical happens we'll be able to go ahead and age it tonight. Then I really need to get to finishing that piece of the Sofokleous's."

"You don't think we'll be hanging around much longer after seeing Eleni?"

Jethro seemed to consider this, "I don't know, but I'd _prefer_ to be able to leave if required."

Monty nodded, "Well just bear in mind that we've still not done much toward organising a cover for seeing her. If you're going to be busy painting though, I'll look to arranging some business cards and the like: hopefully we shouldn't need anything too official."

"I don't think we will," returned her handler, "Eleni _is_ after all expecting us, this is just for the benefit of anyone watching."

Back at the table, the cyborg opened up her computer and started flicking through the resources available; what she really needed was someone who would have a reason for interfacing with a bulk shipping firm. Finding a plausible candidate, she turned the screen to her partner.

"How do you feel about hawking heavy machinery?"

* * *

><p>The young woman manning Anagnos Shipping's reception looked up at the sound of the door sliding open. Walking across the floor, leather soles tapping on the stonework, was a slender man in a slate-grey suit, thick-rimmed glasses and a black trilby hat. Behind him strode a much shorter girl, similarly monochromatically dressed, but wearing a lighter shade of grey and minus the hat and glasses. She also carried a tubular document protector and slender black attaché case.<p>

Arriving at the desk, the man leaned on its top and gave the receptionist a smile, "Hi, Alex Harrington and Melinda Scott from Terex, here to see Eleni Anagnos."

The woman smiled back, "Is she expecting you?"

"She should be."

"Ok, one moment."

With that she reached forward to press a button on her telephone console, "Hello? Ms. Anagnos? I have an Alex Harrington and Melinda Scott here from Terex to see you... Yes there's two of them..."

As she talked, Jethro reached across the desk to point at the gold locket on a pearl string she wore and raised his eyebrows questioningly. Nodding at his query, the girl still started in surprise as he lifted it clear of her collar bone for closer inspection whilst behind, Monty gave a small, exasperated sigh.

Pressing another button, the receptionist turned to the man still inspecting her trinket, "She says to wait here and that she will be down shortly."

"Cheers," he replied. "This is beautiful workmanship."

"Thank you, it belonged to my grandmother. I inherited it after she passed away."

"Including the necklace?"

"Including the necklace."

"You're very lucky," continued the handler, placing the locket back where he had found it. "The painting on the front looks like a Rallis, so take good care of it."

"A who?"

"Theodorus Scaramanga Rallis, he was a Greek Orientalist painter around the turn of the 20th Century. If it is one of his works then that locket should be worth a small fortune, so take good care of it."

At that moment, the elevator to one side of the reception dinged and its doors rattled open to let Eleni Anagnos out. As she strode across the polished concrete flooring, Jethro stepped back and his cyborg whispered under her breath, "'Small Fortune'? Talking Rallis up just a bit isn't that?"

"The art world will rediscover him one day."

"Showoff."

Then the CEO was upon them, proffering her hand, "Mr. Harrington, good to see you again, and this is?"

"Melinda Scott, Alex's… assistant."

Anagnos shook her hand as well before herding both the Blackers toward the waiting lift. Inside she pressed the top floor button and the elderly unit lurched into motion. They rode in silence till it halted and Eleni directed the fratello to exit the car, then motioned them a couple of metres to another, newer looking set of lift doors.

"You'll need to excuse the somewhat convoluted process," said Anagnos matter-of-factly. "It's one of the downsides of having put an extension up an extra level."

While she and Jethro made small talk, the latter's girl took in her surrounds. Nothing particularly special: commercial carpets with no felt backing, suspended tile ceilings and cream-painted gyprock walls. The whole place perfectly matched the standard corporate fit out mould: intended to be stripped out and rebuilt cheaply when the next tenant took possession.

A level higher however, things changed. The upper executive extension was a calculated composition of straight edges and right-angles, all picked out in glass, chromed steel and dark, satin finished woods with smooth, gloss white paintwork serving as a base. Though she hadn't been able to see it two nights previous, outside the gravel of the rooftop had been carefully raked and arranged to resemble something akin to a Japanese rock garden. Patently executive status here entitled one to a much better view compared with the cubicle workers of the floors below.

Ushering the Blackers into the meeting room Monty had spied from the building opposite, Eleni shut the glass door, blotting out sound from the rest of the office, before turning to the younger of her visitors. "I recognise you; you were the girl at the gallery the other day."

"Indeed I was."

Now the CEO rounded on Jethro, "Would you care to explain?"

"To be fair I never said I was alone," started the handler, then he gave a wry grin. "I had a bit of a bad run in two years or so back. These days I like to have another set of eyes around, quite aside from which I'm teaching Melinda here the trade. She's getting good too; checks my mail, fields phone calls, sources equipment..."

"I would have preferred it if you were upfront..." Eleni halted, and changed tack. "Are you going to let me look at this painting of yours? I'm a busy woman and haven't got all day."

"Hold on a minute," said Jethro, raising a hand. "This room is very open, I can see right through into the rest of your offices."

"I am aware of that Mr. Harrington," returned Eleni, "but it's the only room with a decent sized table, and if memory serves: _L'Événement _is not a small canvas. Don't worry, the only person likely come up here in the next few hours is my PA, and she is well paid and knows not to ask questions. Everyone else got called to a last minute lunch meeting."

Monty glanced at her partner, who nodded, and she unscrewed the document protector's end, disgorging its contents onto the table. From between the large sheets of paper depicting various cranes, dumper trucks and other pieces of heavy plant broken down for transport, the girl extracted a loosely rolled canvas. With the aid of her handler it was flattened out on the table, corners held down with a couple of tumblers from the nearby sideboard.

True to Jethro's assertion, the fogging caused by the phenol formaldehyde mixed into his oils had disappeared once the canvas was baked to set, craze and age-discolour the paints. Working it back and forth over the gentle curve of the Audi's bonnet had increased that crazing, and a dilute wash of India ink darkened the cracks to a point that the picture could have been believably painted in the mid-nineteenth century.

Leaning closer, Eleni studied the canvas before turning to her new fence, "You will excuse me if I want to confirm this is legitimate."

The con-artist shrugged, "Go right ahead. I wanted to ascertain its authenticity when it landed in my hands, there's no reason you shouldn't as well."

Picking up a lamp/magnifying glass combination which had also been resting on the piano black table-top, the shipping magnate flicked its daylight bulb on and brought the contraption down close to look at the edge of the canvas. Through it she began checking the marks where the material had been fixed to its wooden frame, before the Blackers removed it for ease of transport.

Turning away briefly, Eleni reached into her handbag to produce a set of photo prints. As she held up one to compare against the canvas in front of her, a buzz filled the air and Monty fished her vibrating iPhone out a pocket.

"Sorry, I'm going to need to get this."

Excusing herself from the room, the girl slid her thumb across the "answer" slider as she slipped out the door.

"Hello? Yes, speaking..."

Then the glass closed behind her, blocking her voice from entering the meeting room and two more steps had her out of sight of it as well.

In the corridor outside, Monty continued to natter away quietly as she surveyed the area. There were no cameras in sight, merely a motion sensor tacked to the end wall. No Anagnos personnel either, just her own reflection in the glass of the company CEO's office. Stowing her phone, the cyborg slipped on a set of open backed, thin leather gloves and let herself inside.

Closing the wood panelled door gently, Monty eyed the room she was in. Under the light of day streaming in through its glazed outer wall, details which hadn't been clear in the night started to swim into focus. The glass itself was thick, and she guessed probably at least moderately bullet resistant. After that the desk chair's back seemed heavy enough to stop whatever the glazing couldn't this side of a bazooka. The front of the desk also went all the way to the floor and could well have been armoured. Feasibly the office's occupant would be protected from either direction, measures which seemed a little over the top for a simple shipping company.

Other than that, the paintings hung up around the room were a mix of Impressionists and more contemporary compositions, all frameless, with each held a millimetre or so out from the wall on some sort of support.

What the space was still devoid of however was a computer, which ruled out Plan A.

_So, Plan B: now, if I were a wall-safe, where would I be hiding? _

Reaching up to the neck of her shirt, Monty extracted her collar stays. The thin slivers of metal had been purchased off the internet and sported a number of cut-outs intended by their makers to slice wires, open bottles and turn screws... none of which Monty intended to use right now.

Moving to the wall which divided this office from the elevator shaft, and ultimately the boardroom on its far side, the girl made a quick, visual inspection of a Pissarro street scene hanging at about eye level. Then, holding her collar stays together and slipping them into the gap between the wall and canvas, she carefully started to work around the perimeter, feeling for any alarm contacts. Reaching the first silicon wall spacer she slipped the two pieces of metal behind it, then delicately spread them apart, using the material to maintain pressure and electrical contact.

_Nothing._

Looking closer, the girl couldn't see anything which would indicate a sensor system attached to those points, and the other little silicone foot was the same. Having worked her way right around the canvas, Monty lifted it out from the wall.

Bare gyprock. _Bollocks_.

The second painting proved a disappointment as well, but the third bore fruit. Lifting the moderately sized Van Doesburg composition down and setting it aside, the girl inspected what it concealed and scowled. While a tumbler lock safe shouldn't have been a massive problem, the cyborg recognised this model as featuring a lightweight bolt system, which would make cracking it more time consuming, and she didn't have all day.

Placing her ear and hand against the safe door, the spy-cum-thief pushed the rotary dial in to engage its clutch and started to slowly turn clockwise until she heard the first, slightly heavier click of a cam engaging. She allowed herself a small smile at that, one of the gadgets the SWA's technology department had tried to foist on her and her partner had been an automatic safe cracker. Unfortunately, unlike in the movies, those generally had to be programmed for each model of safe individually, used what effectively amounted to brute-force methods, and took much longer than a minute or two to find a combination. Jethro had been adamant that she learn to crack a safe the old-fashioned way, which had come in handy time and time again. Even so, with this particular lock, if it hadn't been for her enhanced hearing she would probably never have been able to differentiate the false clicks from those of the lock mechanism actually falling into place, and even then it was a real trick.

Finally the last cam aligned, and carefully Monty opened the safe door. Inside was a wad of US hundred dollar bills and a black, leather-bound ledger. Extracting the money first, the girl sniffed at the paper... slightly acrid. Then she bent one of the notes clear of its companions and held it to the light, inspecting the watermark... similar flaws as the Franklin they'd found in the now deceased Nick's wallet. Well, that just about confirmed it; Anagnos Shipping was certainly involved in _something_. Pity what that something actually entailed was still mostly a mystery.

Smoothing the top bill flat again, the cyborg carefully placed the wad of paper back in the position from whence it came, then extracted the ledger. Opening it up to a random page, she eyed the neat hand writing and a sly smile started to spread across her face: ship names, dates, cargoes and ports... ship movements, _actual_ ship movements with _actual_ cargos applied against them. Seemed a computer may have been useless anyway, Eleni Anagnos chose to keep her secret data well and truly offline.

Taking her phone, Monty double checked it was on silent, and selected the camera app. Wedging the mobile against the open front of the safe so she wouldn't need to re-frame each shot, the girl spread the open ledger on top of the credenza below and started to copy the contents.

* * *

><p>Back in the meeting room, Jethro maintained his relaxed visage, but under the surface he was starting to sweat a little, equal parts excitement and tension. The Anagnos woman was scrutinizing his work much more thoroughly than anticipated, and though he was confident in his ability as a forger, it was impossible to duplicate every brush-stroke with one hundred precent accuracy: the vagaries of the oil medium just wouldn't allow it. The one bit of leeway being cut was that, having confirmed the version of Cézanne's work in the National Art Gallery was a fake, Eleni was using old, lower quality photographs for her comparison.<p>

Either way the game was now started, and he would get to see just how good he was... or vice versa as the case may be.

From outside there was a tap at the door and a woman, assumedly the CEO's PA, stuck her head inside, "Ms. Anagnos? I have your mail for you."

Still engrossed in what she was doing, Eleni didn't even look up, "Just leave it on my desk."

Reaching into his pocket, Jethro brushed his thumb across his phone again to re-dial his girl.

* * *

><p>Monty swore under her breath as the phone vibrated in her hand. Though the number on it was blocked, there was only one person who would likely be calling her right now, and only one reason for him to be doing so: trouble.<p>

Swinging the safe almost closed, she re-hung its concealing Van Doesburg, praying that the weight of the canvas would be enough to prevent the door from falling open again and glanced up to catch sight of Anagnos's PA walking past the office's one-way glass.

_Out of time._

Grabbing her phone and the ledger, the cyborg dove for Eleni's massive desk, scrambling under it just as the door latch clicked open.

Huddled under the woodwork, Monty barely dared breathe as she strained to hear approaching footsteps muffled by carpet, the tick of her watch's escapement competing with beat of her own heart for the title of loudest noise. Not for the first time she offered a silent thanks to genetics and the doctors who had allowed her to keep her skinny, waif-like frame; one of the bigger, more developed cyborgs may have been in serious strife right now.

The footsteps stopped, and there was a quiet thud as something was dropped on the desktop. For two heartbeats no more sounds came, then the footfalls started to move around the desk and the girl bunkered down beneath it pushed herself further into the corner, almost trying to crawl into the timber. If she were spotted, then that would be it: months of work down the drain, job over.

A slender, stockinged leg wearing a sensible, flat leather shoe appeared between the woodwork and chair. From behind Monty's head came the tiny sound of rails smoothly sliding against each other as the leg's owner opened one of the desk's built-in draws, followed by the rustle of paper.

_That nosey..._

The rustling stopped and the desk draw rolled back into its slot again, soft-close mechanism catching it half an inch out and silently pulling it home as the footsteps started back toward the entrance. When the door latch clicked shut, Monty made a slow count to twenty before cautiously raising her phone's camera just above the desk and snapping a picture.

The room appearing clear on her screen, she peeked over the top of the desk, then scrambled out of her hiding place to resume photographing the ledger. She would need to move quickly, that interruption had cost far too much time.

* * *

><p>Eyeing his watch, Jethro looked up to see his cyborg slip quietly in through the boardroom door and shot the girl a quick, encouraging smile. She'd been gone a little longer than he would have liked, but Eleni still seemed to be wrapped up in her study of the canvas on the table. Doing her best to avoid the magnate's peripheral vision, Monty sidled around the room and took a seat quietly next to her handler.<p>

Eventually the CEO raised her head, "Ah, Ms. Scott... I didn't notice your return."

Turning to Jethro she continued, "The paint work is quite heavy isn't it?"

"Yes, it is," nodded the handler. "As I mentioned on Tuesday, this was done during Cézanne's dark period. In fact the use of _L'Événement,_ rather than one of his father's more conservative journals, is considered by some to be a sign of rebellion. At the time though he was working with a very heavily loaded brush or even straight pallet knife, meaning the paint was layered on quite thickly."

"It would take awhile to dry completely."

"It would."

Rummaging in her handbag Eleni produced a small bottle, "Nail polish remover, there's one more test I wish to try."

Jethro nodded and his prospective buyer dabbed a little of the acetone solvent on a tissue and then rubbed it on a corner of the artwork.

One of the greatest obstacles for any forger working in oils was that the paints themselves were very slow curing. While dry to touch after a few days, the reality was that, in order to harden fully they required literally over a century of exposure to air. Once that had occurred, not even a strong solvent such as acetone would remove the remaining pigment. However it was also a process which could not be accelerated by any currently known means.

It had been legendary Dutch forger Hans Van Meegeren who had pioneered a workaround technique of mixing small amounts of phenol formaldehyde, better known as Bakelite, into his paints. When heated in an oven for aging, the plastic also hardened, giving the fresh paint a resilience mimicking that of pigments hundreds of years old.

Now Eleni pulled her tissue away from the picture and held it up... clean.

"Well Mr. Harrington, it seems that to be best of my not insubstantial knowledge, what you have here is indeed the genuine article. I am surprised, though I take it that it also will not come cheaply?"

"We are currently asking twenty-five million Euro," said Monty immediately.

"That I will need time to think about."

Now it was Jethro who gave the woman a questioning look, "Define 'time', because if you aren't interested then I can take this somewhere else."

Anagnos held up a placating hand, "Not long, I realise you have other potential buyers in the wings... a few hours at the most."

At the table, Monty started gathering up the rolls of paper and arranging them around the canvas for stowage again and her handler nodded.

_Time to push his luck a little._

"In that case then may I suggest that Melinda here and I take a tour of some of your port facilities? It'd help explain us coming back later, and lend extra credibility to the Terex cover."

* * *

><p>The black Range Rover, a different one to that which had picked up Eleni from the gallery if the numberplate was to be believed, rolled to a halt at the gates of Lemesos's freight terminal. Though not a true deep water port, Lemesos had handled the bulk of Cyprus' cargo traffic since its predecessor, Famagusta, had become part of the Turkish occupied North during the 1974 invasion.<p>

Stepping out of the four wheel drive's plush interior, the Blackers were met by a gruff looking Cypriot in a bright orange and reflective taped shirt, who introduced himself as Anagnos' works superintendent, Costa Papoutsakis.

Ushering the two into the guard hut, the super started, "We take safety very seriously here and right across Anagnos Shipping, so you will need to do a short induction before being allowed into our work area."

Going by the monotone in which the speech was delivered, Jethro guessed it was a memorised spiel for the benefit of shiny-arsed corporate visitors. Still…

"Injuries don't help anyone, so it's good to see… I trust the safety crowd know not to interfere too much with actually getting work done though?"

_Grimace._

"What if I need something... _expedited?_"

The grimace disappeared, "My boys can get anything done you ask, it just depends on how much you're willing to pay and how far you can keep the fucking safety crowd from me."

The visitor induction turned out to be half safety, half promotional video for Anagnos itself and the fratello escaped thirty minutes later with a loaner hard-hat and bright orange vest each, and aliases of their aliases signed into a register against corresponding guest passes.

Leaving the luxury of the Range Rover at the gate, the Blackers with their guide piled into a much less auspicious white, dual-cab Hilux, with a flashing amber light on the roof. As they drove through the vehicle entrance, past two warehouses then into the tall canyons of shipping containers, Costa started to give them a rundown of Anagnos's capabilities.

"We're primarily a container facility here and move over sixty-thousand TEU a year. That's on average, my boys can stack a lot fucking faster if need be, and I have hardstand for another four thousand TEU reserved for Anagnos' usage."

"What about break-bulk and outsize cargo?" put in Monty. "Not everything we move will fit in a shipping container."

Looking over his shoulder the super eyed the girl, "Where'd you say you were from darling?"

That solicited a slight scowl, "Terex."

"Well settle your head," he continued, seemingly oblivious to the darkening storm clouds. "For break-bulk I can either use a ship's cranes, or there're two 700 tonne units on the land side which can do single or dual lifts. There's laydown for larger crap as well, but not much and it's open to the weather."

Pulling up at the last row of containers before the waterfront, Costa ushered his guests out of the utility. Their view of the harbour however was blocked by a large intermodal carrier moored up against the wharf.

"You'll have to stay clear of the other end of the quay as I'm in the middle of loading, just in case we fucking drop one or shit, but you can watch the operation from here and check out some of our gear."

Stepping out further from the hardstand area, Jethro looked down the length of the quay toward where the expanse of concrete turned ninety degrees along a second basin, giving room for another, smaller vessel to moor. Just his side of the kink, a second carrier was being stacked high with containers for its voyage to God-knew where.

Gesturing at the vessel immediately in front of him however, the handler asked, "So why's that still here? All she's doing right now is burning money."

Costa looked sour at that, "Fucking Maritime Safety boarded her two days ago and has held her departure until they've squared some issue away... She's not even one of ours, so all she's doing is using up frontage."

"The Port's decision?"

"Yeah, we don't own the place, just stack out of it."

Pointing toward the ship itself Jethro started, "Do you mind if we..."

"Go right ahead. Just not too fucking close, you should technically be in PFDs," Costa pulled his phone out and waved it. "I have to make a call, so yell if you need me."

While the Blackers moved to the edge of the quayside, Monty noted that their escort hadn't completely left, but instead hovered forty or so feet away, talking on his mobile in Greek. Looking down between the ship and wharf, the cyborg kept her back facing him and gestured as if referring to something in the gap.

As her handler knelt down beside her she said quietly, "Feel like we're being watched? More than would be expected at least?"

Jethro nodded slightly, "Yes, and it's not a feeling I'm greatly fond of. Keep your eyes peeled."

Pausing for a second he continued, "It's odd they'd keep this ship here though, even if Maritime Safety ordered her held, the Port wouldn't be happy about losing the space and would want her moved off to a mooring. At the end of the day this isn't a particularly large facility and they can't afford to lose the work area."

"Ulterior motive?"

"Could be... could be our mate there is telling the truth too though: few people would accuse the safety bureaucracy of being logical."

"Hmm," Monty looked up at the prow of the ship towering above her. "On a different note, this doesn't appear like she's had a name change recently, that paint's old. I was hoping to get a look at her stern as well to check where she was flagged, but that particular plan's been scuppered… and both are too low in the water to check for scrapes."

"The last is probably a bit of a moot point this far down the track," put in Jethro. "That said, I think the Port of Limassol may be worth another visit sometime in the future."

Standing up, the handler waved Costa over while his cyborg did her best to subtly scan the area for anything out of place. Something was definitely starting to feel off about this visit but she couldn't place it.

The superintendent had now put his phone away and trotted over to join his guests. As he arrived, Jethro motioned to the crane booms stretched out above the group, giving his cyborg a chance to give the container loader a visual once over as well.

"Do you think we could get up there to take a look around?"

At that Costa shook his head vehemently, "No I'm afraid, authorised personnel only."

The handler gave him a grin, "If it helps; Terex deals in port equipment... in fact I think you'll find that's one of our machines."

"That it may be, but unless you can produce a working at heights ticket right the fuck now then neither of you are going up there."

"Alright, keep your tutu on," chided Jethro, making a placating gesture.

"Is there anything else you wanted to see?" asked the superintendent gruffly. "If not there's a job I need to get back to."

"No, just run us through your break-bulk laydown yard and we'll be out of your hair."

Nodding, the burly Cypriot herded the fratello back to his Hilux, then took off down the wharf toward the perimeter fence and away from where his crew were working.

* * *

><p>Divested again of their protective gear, the Range Rover deposited the Blackers back in front of Anagnos's headquarters. Brushing some imagined dirt off her suit jacket, Monty then reached up to straighten her handler's tie, in the process bringing his head down to meet hers and using his body to hide her own face from the building.<p>

"So what did you think?" she asked quietly, eyes darting up and down the street as she did so.

"I think our mate Costa seemed very keen to keep us off that crane, or from seeing what was happening down the other end of the dock."

"Me too. Feeling of being watched?"

"Still there," straightening up the handler continued more loudly. "So do I pass muster?"

Running a critical eye over her partner, his cyborg straightened his lapels, tweaked his pocket square and brushed the breast of his suit flat, "Barely."

"Come on then, lets not keep Eleni waiting."

Placing a hand gently on the nape on his girl's neck, Jethro guided her through the building's doors and resisted the urge to take one last glance behind himself. "Trust your gut" was something his teachers in MI6 had drummed into him, and it was a lesson the young agent Blacker had taken to heart. So far, nine times out of ten, his instincts had been correct.

Pushing those thoughts to the back of his head however, Jethro concentrated on the job in hand, throwing a smile and a nod to the receptionist as she gestured for the fratello to head straight up.

Stepping onto the floor below the executive suites, and now in a state of mind more geared toward a flight or fight mentality, the handler couldn't help but note that the interchange would make a pretty good choke point. The question was though if that was a deliberate design choice, or just a quirk of a poorly executed building extension.

Catching the lift up to the top floor, the fratello found Eleni in her office, halfway through reading the mail which had been delivered that morning. Gesturing to two chairs in front of her desk, she addressed the Blackers without looking up. "Take a seat, I won't be a moment."

Sitting down and crossing her legs neatly, Monty noticed that there was still no computer visible anywhere. Seemingly then the CEO was one of those who somehow operated without one, or was keeping it concealed whilst she had company present.

Jethro had noted the discrepancy as well, "I see you've managed to avoid the digital age?"

Now Anagnos looked up, "So far Mr. Harrington."

"Smart lady."

The CEO gave him a wry smile, "I can't understand the things and am too old to bother learning..."

"And yet you somehow manage to run a multi-million Euro company."

"Elissa intercepts emails and similar, then turns them into hard-copy for me to peruse."

The handler nodded, "Elissa" assumedly being the PA from earlier. Beside him, Monty was finding the "no computer" story increasingly difficult to swallow; for starters there simply wasn't enough paper lying around for this to be a completely electronics-free office. Admittedly there was the low credenza running up each side of the room, but even then...

She had been given to believe Omurtak's office had contained significantly more storage than this one, and it had apparently been overflowing with documentation for a much smaller operation. Not only that, but her own dealings within the SWA had imbued the cyborg with a fairly good idea how much paperwork an organisation was capable of generating, to the point where sometimes she couldn't help but feel that the Agency existed not to catch terrorists, but to keep the paper mills busy.

Something here wasn't adding up.

As the CEO had finished the letter she was reading and put it down neatly, Jethro gave her another relaxed grin, "I take it you've come to a decision then Ms. Anagnos?"

"I have, I should like to buy your Cézanne. You're correct in that it is a fine example of his dark period, not to mention that it would help round out my portfolio of Impressionist painters," now she fixed Jethro with a steady eye. "However, I consider twenty-five million Euro to be on the high side. The painting is unframed, not to mention that your price is very close to the maximum bid at a _legal_ auction recently for a Cézanne work. I am willing to offer twenty."

The handler maintained his easy going expression, but now there was a hint of playful scorn in it, "Come now Ms. Anagnos, you know as well as I do that unless the frame is of some significant interest, then whether it is included with a work has no bearing on its value. As for the auction price, the auction to which you refer was for a simple still life which sold for almost thirty-seven million US dollars at Sotheby's."

"And _you_ know as well as _I_, Mr. Harrington, that you can't expect to draw full legal prices for black-market art."

Jethro nodded, "I know, and I don't. However this is a much more significant piece than '_Still Life with Fruits and a Ginger Jar_'. It would also be fair to point out that another of Cézanne's works '_Boy in a Red Vest'_ was valued, after its recent theft, at around one hundred million Euro by the insurers... almost _double_ the combined value of the van Gogh, Degas and Monet that disappeared with it. In that context, twenty-five million Euro is a bargain."

"Twenty-three, final offer."

The handler started to stand, "Perhaps I should have made this clear at the start Ms. Anagnos: I do not haggle and I do not bargain. I pick my customers, and I ask a price from them which I believe to be fair. If you are not willing to pay the full amount then there are plenty who will be."

"Is that what you were doing in Monaco: picking customers?"

There was a pause as he shot the woman a look which said that was a question _never_ likely to receive an answer and that she, Eleni, should really know better than to ask it. Meanwhile, Monty checked that the canvas was still safe inside its protector, before handing it to her partner for his own appraisal, and prepared to leave.

"Fine," conceded Eleni. "Twenty-five million Euro, but I will need time to get the money together."

Twisting the top of the document tube back into place, Jethro looked over at her, "Take all the time you need, though a rough estimate would be useful."

"A week."

"Then we'll be back in a week," he held up the tube containing his forgery. "Until then though, this stays with me."

"Of course," Eleni proffered her hand and the spy took it. "Do you have a preferred method of payment, or account to pay to?"

It was Monty who answered as she too shook hands, "That also, will be provided to you in a week, but expect a wire transfer."

Leaving the office and making the broken descent to ground level, the Blackers soon found themselves back on the street, walking toward where Jethro had hidden their scooter.

Flipping the document tube jauntily in the air and catching it again, Jethro turned to his companion, "It's nice doing business without needing to make a sale... the money here is just a bonus."

"Did Alex actually have a 'no haggling' rule?"

"He did."

Now Monty looked thoughtful, "She didn't seem to cave a bit quickly to you?"

"You think she may be making sure we come back for some reason?"

"The thought had crossed my mind," intoned the cyborg quietly, "especially since we seem to have picked up a tail."

Jethro nodded, "Brown jacket and Persols? Looks like he wishes he was Steve McQueen?"

"That's him. I'm starting to think that getting out of this town for the next week or so might be a good idea."

"Agreed; come on, we'll try loose him in the alleys."

Keeping their pace casual, the fratello ambled up the main street for a few hundred metres before ducking down one of the narrow laneways that riddled the older parts of the city. Continuing straight ahead until their tail rounded the corner to keep them in sight, they held their course until reaching the next wide, major thoroughfare, making their follower's life easy as he got comfortable in his role. Occasionally they'd duck into a shop for a drink or to look at the sort of trinkety garbage people bought for their supposed loved ones back home: normal things for foreigners in a foreign land.

Passing a bus stop, Monty glanced at a posted time table and nudged her handler. Turning up the next opening between buildings the fratello broke from their easy going pattern and immediately cut down a much narrower footpath behind the fronting row of houses. With the coast ahead and behind clear they legged it, galloping back the direction they had come until they arrived at a crossroads leading back to the main street. Ducking into a darkened doorway, Jethro put himself between his cyborg and the alley, allowing her to see past him and using his darker suit to help conceal them in the shadows.

Reaching inside her jacket, Monty loosened her PPK in its shoulder rig.

"What do you think he is?" she whispered. "Padania? Corporate?"

Jethro shook his head slightly, "Hard to tell just yet, lets see how he goes finding us."

Minutes ticked past, and the sound of a heavy vehicle pulling up pricked Monty's ears, "That sounds like our ticket out."

Sliding out from behind her handler, the cyborg stuck her head into the alley and glanced both ways before motioning for him to join her. Checking once more behind themselves, the fratello strode down the pavement and onto the bus which had pulled up at the stop they had passed earlier.

Taking seats on the side furthest from the footpath, the Blackers waited calmly for the cabin to fill up, the only outward sign of tension being Monty's fingers quietly drumming on her leg. Realising what she was doing the girl put a conscious stop to the action.

After what seemed like an age she heard the air brakes release and the bus pulled away from the curb into the relative safety of travel. As the ancient vehicle trundled down the street, both partners quietly checked the faces around them; this close to peak hour people were packed together tightly, but none appeared to be their tail. That however didn't mean they were in the clear.

The fratello stayed with the route for three stops before disembarking and ducking through another alley. Half a minute had them at the parked Vespa and Jethro handed his cyborg an open-faced helmet, which she eyed with distaste.

"I still can't understand why someone would willingly subject themselves to this."

Her handler chuckled, "Ask, Priscilla... or Alboreto, or Pagani."

Securing the document roll so it part obscured their vehicle's numberplate, Monty perched herself on the pillion seat and held onto her partner's waist as he thumbed the 250cc engine into life. Halting at the end of the street, Jethro checked left and right before pulling sedately out into the rush-hour traffic.

Pottering along with the slow moving sea of vehicles, the spy kept a wary eye on his mirrors... which meant it wasn't long before he spotted the large BMW touring bike, idling a few cars back from the fratello.

"Don't look now," he said just loud enough for the girl behind to hear, "but I think our mate is back."

Glancing around her handler to get a look at one of the scooter's mirrors, Monty caught sight of their tail. The front cowling of the bike itself blocked a lot of her view, and the rider's helmet meant she couldn't see his face, but the jacket was the same and, she noted, there were no panniers on the bike either, so this probably wasn't someone headed home from work.

"How'd he find us?"

Jethro looked down again, "Don't know, but he either got very lucky or is quite good. If the latter I'd be willing to bet he's from, or is at least ex, one of the better intelligence agencies."

"Loose him."

"Going to have to," the Brit inspected his slim-cut suit. "At least we're dressed for it."

"Mods and Rockers."

"That one."

As he finished speaking, the spy tilted his Vespa over into the gap between the two lanes of traffic and wound the throttle wide open, charging off up the rows of commuters. After a second's pause, there was a roar as the motorbike swung out and gave chase. It was a powerful beast, far more powerful then the scooter, but in the tight confines of rush hour its rider couldn't deploy its horses and Jethro took full advantage, using his vehicle's smaller size to weave through the tightly packed cars as he searched for a way out.

One thing was for sure, whoever the man behind them was, he must by now know that his covert operation was a bust. No point then in trying to be tricky, lulling him into a false sense of security; it was time to get away.

Cutting across the road's centreline the handler rolled the scooter through a tight 180 degree turn and dove again into the traffic. Horns blared as he dodged and wove his way across the lanes, a similar cacophony behind helping chart the progress of their pursuer.

Popping out from between two cars like a bar of soap from beneath an unfortunate foot, the Vespa bounced across the curb and buzzed off down a side street at full throttle. As they ran, Monty counted under her breath until behind them there was another roar as the BMW extracted itself from the tight confines of traffic and its boxer twin was finally given its head.

_A few seconds, not a big gap at all._

Jethro hit the brakes to dodge through ninety degrees into another turning; straight lines were no good, he was carrying too much weight with too little power. Feeling the rear tyre wiggle as he tried to take another corner too quickly, the handler swore silently, reflexively throwing out a leg lest he should need to catch the bike. Monty had had a point earlier, and he personally preferred four wheels as well: at least cars could be slid without fear of them falling over at the same time.

"How do you feel about getting off!" Jethro yelled backwards.

"Are you going to stop first!"

"No!"

"Are you coming as well!"

"No!"

"Then not bloody likely!"

Jethro tried another tack, "I can't outrun him with you on!"

"You can't outrun him anyway, so you may as well have the extra protection!" retorted his cyborg.

"Quit bickering!"

"You started it!"

Turning his attention back fully to the task in hand, the spy flicked his bike into the next laneway and felt Monty's grip tighten around him. At the end of the narrow gap between buildings he could see another traffic jam and dove toward it. The footpaths were skinny here, and the unfortunate driver whom the scooter appeared in front of didn't even have time to hit the brakes before the little bike slid past his prow and accelerated again up the road. It didn't do his heart much better when the BMW loomed in his side window before swerving around the car's rear.

Catching the last of the action in his mirror as more horns blared, Jethro realised what he needed.

"Lookout for a bus or a truck or something similarly long in the far left lane!"

"Do I want to know!"

"Probably not! And pick a car or two a bit in front of it!"

Peering around her partner again, Monty scoured the road ahead of them. "There, three blocks up, looks like a tour coach, one of the really big ones!"

"That'll do!"

Speeding down the line of cars, Jethro checked his mirrors again to see their pursuer gaining as he accelerated through the clear air between the rows of traffic.

Three blocks became two, became one and the bus flashed past the fratello's left side. Behind, the BMW was still rapidly closing the gap, now only a few car lengths back and the spy checked the distance again... this would be down to the wire.

Counting a rough two hundred meters past the crawling coach, Jethro suddenly slammed his brakes on as hard as he dared, feeling the rear wheel threaten to lock and flung his scooter across the front of another car and into the welcoming maw of another alleyway. That bought a little room as his pursuer reacted, then slowed enough to double back after its quarry.

Again close between buildings the Blackers made another turn, in behind the first row of houses, spearing back the direction they had come.

"Keep an eye out for the car you picked!"

"I think I know what you're doing and for the record I don't like it!" returned Monty, glancing down the next opening and back toward the main street as they whizzed past. Behind, the BMW made its own turn and started to accelerate toward the Blackers once again.

"Got a better idea!"

"Annoyingly no! Red Beetle!"

"What!"

"_Red Beetle!_ We just went past one of my marker cars!"

Swinging into the next alley they came to and back towards the road, Jethro could see the tourist coach just starting to pull across its exit. Perfect, scary-close, but perfect. Still with the Vespa's throttle open as far as it would go, the spy and his companion tore down the narrow gap between walls. Holding the power on for as long as he dared, Jethro squeezed the brakes hard again, and swerved out over the footpath, across the front of the bus and into the next lane, continuing to weave a crazed course across the traffic.

Unfortunately for their pursuer, his bike was faster, heavier... its brakes were also better, but as the coach idled forward to completely cover the alley exit, the BMW had a much sharper turn than its quarry to make, and a scant few feet to do it in, which wasn't enough. Out of earshot of the SWA pair, there was a dull thud as the tourer impacted the side of the coach.

Slipping into another side street to leave the immediate vicinity as quickly as possible, Jethro glanced back at his cyborg.

"See? _Genius_ plan."

"Deranged genius perhaps, you're not doing much to change my opinion of two wheeled transport."

The handler shrugged, "I think we might switch it for a four wheeled renter next anyway, time to put some distance between us and Lemesos for a week or so."

Monty relaxed her grip on his waist slightly, "I hear Northern Cyprus is nice for money laundering this time of year."

"Sounds like my sort of holiday destination."

* * *

><p>It was a weary fratello which dragged itself up the stairs to the apartment a few hours later. After the events of the day, both members had agreed that it would be a good idea to be rid of the Vespa. That had been returned early to its rental company, resulting in a small refund, which was a nice bonus. They had then taken a somewhat more direct journey than usual back to their accommodation, trading a properly confuddling route for minimising the risk of running into their known tail again.<p>

Halfway up, Monty suddenly stopped and silently held out her arm to halt her handler. Passing the document tube containing his forged painting back, she checked that her PPK was loose in its holster for an easier draw and continued towards the veranda, keeping her demeanour casual.

Sat at the outdoor table were a set of legs, topped by a too-short pleat skirt...

"Oh, hey Megan," said Constandina, raising her head from where she had been resting it and leaning sideways to get a better view of the girl now climbing the stairs. "You're later in than usual."

"Long day," replied the cyborg, relaxing slightly and signalling out of the schoolgirl's sight line that the coast was clear.

As Jethro's head appeared above floor level, Constandina immediately perked up, "Hi Mr. Blackall."

The handler acknowledged the greeting with a twitch of the document tube and a smile, "What brings you here at this hour Dina?"

Constandina returned the smile happily and held up a foil wrapped package, "_Mana _sent dinner over for us."

"_Us?_" deadpanned Monty, raising and eyebrow.

"Yeah, 'us': me, you two and _Peteras_... he's just finishing up in the shop now. I've been waiting here for fucking _aaaaaaages_."

"Language."

Constandina rolled her eyes but went on, "Let me inside and I'll warm it up."

Shrugging at his cyborg, Jethro motioned for her to unlock the door. As it rolled open, Constandina slid past, found the light switch and headed for the small kitchenette on the side of the room. As she clattered around, Monty silently took the document tube from her handler to move it out of sight into their bedroom.

Within a few minutes the fratello's teenage host had a pan of _fasolada_ bean soup beside a steamer of fresh meat _dolmades _on the stove and, heating on its own, pita bread; baked that morning in the same oven the Blackers had used to age their painting. As she tended to the food, Dina chatted aimlessly about school, her friends, the teacher she thought was eyeing her off...

...Monty groaned internally and set about trying to look like she cared.

Fortunately for the cyborg she was saved by Caesare's arrival, now finished whatever he had been doing in the deli downstairs.

"Ah, so you finally came home!"

Constandina pouted slightly at the intrusion on her own time in the spotlight, but Monty grasped onto the promise of adult conversation with both hands and inestimable relief, "Yes, finally, the day just somehow snowballed."

The elder Sofokleous grinned, taking a seat at the kitchen table with his tenants, "Well seeing as it's Friday now, and I assume from that there's still work to be done, you will be wanting the apartment for another fortnight?"

This time it was Jethro who replied, "Actually, I've been meaning to talk to you about that. We need to slip north for a week or so..."

The other man's countenance darkened, "You're not dealing with those _kotsiros_ Turks are you?"

"Not by choice," replied the spy, shaking his head. "However the boss says 'jump'... anyway, I was wondering if you'd mind if we left the car and a few things here; we'll keep paying the rent of course."

Caesare's base-state grin returned, "You keep paying and you may leave whatever you want here, I'll keep an eye on it."

"Cheers," said Jethro. "We'll be off early tomorrow, but before we do... Dina, you might be interested in this as well."

Trailing off, the handler stood and walked to where his easel was facing the wall and Constandina left what she was doing to come and watch as well. "I said I enjoy painting, but being on the road prevents me from indulging very often... Well it also prevents me from taking the end result with me, so I try to paint things which can reasonably be left behind."

Spinning the easel around to reveal the canvas on it he continued, "This one's for you."

"Oh _wow_. That's incredible, thank_ you_!"

Her father looked on in amusement as Constandina rushed forward to get a closer look, "Can I touch it?"

Jethro shook his head, "The paints will need awhile to dry properly, one of the curses of oils."

"So…"

"That's a '_no',_ at least not yet."

Stepping back to study her partner's handy work, while Dina buzzed around it excitedly, Monty had to concede he had done an excellent job of concealing the painting's origins. If one were looking for it, it would be just possible to make out the basic structure which had once been Paul Cézanne's "_The Artist's Father Reading __L'Événement"__. _The dark areas however had now become grape vines above, the floor and wall of the patio outside, while the white of the chair had taken on a more earthy tone to become a sundrenched building, backlighting the scene. In front of that sat Caesare, studying his backgammon board with Constandina walking into the scene from the direction of the stair, both edge lit by the brightness behind.

Standing up to make his own inspection, Mr. Sofokleous eventually nodded and turned to his tenant, reaching out his hand "Thank you, Mr. Blackall."

"My pleasure," returned Jethro, shaking the proffered appendage. "As I said: I can't take these things with me, but I'd like them to find good homes."

"I'll find somewhere good to hang it."

Butting into the conversation, Constandina ripped her mobile phone out, "I'm totally taking a picture to show the guys at school, they're going to be _so_ jealous…"

Jethro grinned again, "As long as that's all you take for now, the whole thing's yours in a week or so when Megan and I get back from up North."

"…and I want you with it!"

At that the handler stepped away from his painting, over to his cyborg and put an arm around her shoulders, "Oh no, we don't _do_ photos."

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	5. CH05 A Night at the Cinema

**AND THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction by Alfisti, based on works by Yu Aida. The Alboreto and Pagani fratelli belong to Professor Voodoo and Kiskaloo respectively._

* * *

><p><strong>CH05|A Night at the Cinema<strong>

"That's all there is to it?"

The Greek border guard closed the second passport and placed it back on his counter, evaluating its owner across the divide. Being located in Cyprus's capital, the _Agios Dometios_ checkpoint between the Greek South and Turkish North was naturally busy, and had only continued to get more so since the UN Green Line opened in 2003. The last thing he felt like dealing with right now was a bumbling tourist who hadn't read the brochure.

"Yes sir, you are use EU passport, the border is open to you."

"Oh."

Behind her handler, Monty rolled her eyes and concentrated on looking like a teenager wishing she was somewhere else. It wasn't difficult; she could think of plenty more enjoyable things to do than play dumb, especially when the audience was such an easy mark.

"Well then, cheers." Scooping up both sets of British documents, Jethro held one back to his girl, "Onwards luv."

Bright sunlight cascaded over the fratello as they exited the office into Nicosia's cool winter air, prompting the elder member to pluck his sunglasses from where they hung on his shirt collar. Slipping them on as he walked, he led his girl through the throng of people toward where their rental Fiesta was parked and made for the driver's door.

"Other side Skipper..."

Halting in his tracks, the handler pivoted on the spot, turning back the way he had come.

"...and don't think I didn't see you try to change gears with the door handle either," deadpanned his partner.

Now on the correct side of the car, he let himself in, settling into the unfamiliar driver's seat before waggling the gear stick a couple of times and depressed the clutch.

"Back on the proper side of the road or not, it's nice to have something to do with my left foot for a change."

Slipping into her own chair, Monty either missed the comment or didn't bother replying, instead leaning across her handler to wind the car's windows down as its four cylinder engine thrummed to life. Finding reverse, Jethro edged the little saloon back and then into the slow moving line of vehicles filtering through the checkpoint.

Flashing their stamped documents to another guard, the Blackers were waved through into Turkish occupied North Nicosia, otherwise known as Lefkosa this side of the Green Line. It was like stepping back in time; while Nicosia was a relatively prosperous and modern city Lefkosa, embargoed and relying on Turkish support, remained virtually as it had in the Seventies. Double clutching down a gear to take the turn onto the major route East, Jethro couldn't help but think that things had still come a long way since his previous visit.

Last lingering effects of being parked in the sun vented, he closed the car up, saving its occupants from being buffeted as he accelerated up onto the highway.

_Well, that was about as much procrastination as he could manage._

"So, when we get to Famagusta... I was thinking it might be best if I went to track down our money launderer by myself."

Silence.

Eventually his companion cocked an eyebrow, "Why?"

Finding top gear, the handler took a moment to steal a glance at his girl, pondering the best way to get her onside, "The bloke we're trying to line up is highly paranoid, it's what makes him good. I haven't seen him since the SIS days and an old face turning up after so long is going to put him on edge enough. Having that same old face arrive with a new one in tow first time out may just break the whole deal."

Monty shook her head, "You'll be alone and unarmed."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

While the passage north had been reasonably easy, the Greek Cypriot authorities on the Green Line were known for turning southbound vehicles inside out looking for contraband, particularly tourist cars. In light of that, and devoid of their usual array of hiding places, the Blackers had chosen to leave their firearms in Lemesos. While the decision was sensible in terms of maintaining cover, it wasn't helping Monty remain any further off edge.

Now she was looking unhappy, "And it wouldn't be the first time I'd stood back a bit as your support. I don't exactly need to be hanging on your elbow for the initial contact, you know that."

"No. I don't want to risk you being recognised twice; I doubt our launderer will take it in his stride as easily as Anagnos did."

Now Monty fixed him with a flat look and Jethro let out a small sigh before reaching over the give her knee a reassuring squeeze, "I know what you're thinking, but I'm not just trying to wind you up. We damn near ran into a similar issue with another SIS agent, had to drop him so as not to blow my own cover. Besides, this could take a few days and I need you going through that ledger from Eleni's office before we move back south."

The cyborg held his eyes for half a second, before giving her own semi-defeated sigh as he turned back to the road, "What's the chap's name?"

"Talik."

"I assume it he doesn't have a last name."

"Not to those dealing with him."

Monty paused briefly, "Well at least take your phone with you, and make sure you've got my number queued up."

"Yes dear."

"And make sure you're somewhere I can get to you in a hurry."

"Yes dear."

"_Don't you..."_

"Yes dear."

_Sigh._

Steering away from the argument she'd just lost the girl started again, "Any more thoughts on our friend from Lemesos?"

Jethro shook his head slightly, "To be honest there's not much to go on. I still think he was in some way, shape or form related to one of the major intelligence agencies..."

Monty cut in on that, "I'd almost prefer he _was_ from a national agency, being so would make it more likely his intended target was Anagnos, and we just got caught in the crossfire. That someone may be taking an interest in me personally is not a concept I'm particularly fond of."

"Me neither, but if he's corporate or Padania then..."

"Either way, next packet that goes back to Rome I'll ask Ferro to quietly check if the Italians are running anything in the area."

"You don't think that would risk revealing our hand?"

"Hence 'quietly'; I know as well as you that between the political infighting and power plays, our own agencies can be almost as dangerous to us as the foreign ones."

Jethro removed one hand from the steering wheel to pinch the bridge of his nose, "And _that_ situation's only going to get worse."

* * *

><p>By evening, part of Monty was starting to regret her insistence at staying close to the heart of Famagusta. The small hotel she and her handler had checked into was the sole option available and, like many monopolies, charged exorbitant prices for substandard service. On the upside their room at least boasted its own toilet and shower, and they had forked out a few extra New Turkish Lira in order to get an air conditioner, albeit one which was not currently functional.<p>

In the end though she was willing to put up with these inconveniences; for the central location, combined with the port town's small size, meant she could respond to her handler's call with reasonable alacrity wherever he was. It didn't hurt that their room also overlooked a back street, giving her ready access to the surrounding rooftops.

Hopefully that particular piece of good fortune would remain unacted upon.

Still, sitting here worrying wasn't going to help anyone. Turning to the tiny table provided, the girl's eyes flicked between two screens in front of her. On her laptop was the excel spreadsheet from Monaco, filtered for Eleni's entries. Beside it, propped up against the wall, was a brand new Apple iPad2. Technically her handler's, but now commandeered as a second monitor, it displayed the photos she had taken in Anagnos's offices.

Picking up the tablet first, Monty flicked back through the images, starting with the letters delivered whilst she hid under Eleni's desk then onto actual photos of the CEO's ledger pages. One of the things which had become readily apparent once she'd had a chance to study the data was that the "cargoes" column was less immediately useful than she had hoped. Instead of actual items, it simply noted for each entry a string of numbers and letters. Some were recognisable as ISO 6346 container codes, but not all; though those could just be units not utilising the standard.

What had beenproving more helpful were the point of origin and destination columns. Scanning down the neatly printed writing, Monty picked a couple of routes which seemed to be occurring most often and started tallying them up. She would have preferred to dump the data into excel first so it could be manipulated, but right now time was of the essence, and what the fratello needed was something to work with by the time they got back to Lemesos. If she had a chance later, then she could start getting information from the images into a more malleable format.

_Panama, Lemesos, Odessa, Panama, Alexandria, Genoa, Genoa, Mersin, Panama, Odessa, Panama..._

The girl leaned back and scrubbed at tired eyes; no wonder their port visit in Turkey hadn't turned up much, few of Anagnos's less-legal operations seemed to be passing through that country. A better place to be looking would seemingly be South America or the Black Sea.

_But if there was so little traffic to Turkey, how did Omurtak and Hermes fit in?_

Placing the tablet back down, Monty turned her attention to her laptop screen. Flicking between it and the iPad she started to compare Eleni's payment dates to the transport dates, checking for correlations. If something would just line up it'd at least give her and her handler somewhere to start looking once they left Cyprus.

Unfortunately, the Anagnos CEO's "wins" in Monaco seemed to be happening on a reasonably regular quarterly basis, with a couple of oddballs thrown in. The first she recognised as the one which coincided with Nick and Shamus's deaths and her own trip to Monte Carlo. The second...

...didn't line up with any shipping dates.

Sighing and standing, Monty ambled her way over to the room's minibar and contemplated the meagre collection of drinks it contained.

_So if that last payment didn't correspond with a shipping date, what did it relate to? Taking care of something elsewhere? Or acting as a middle-man for..._

The little refrigerator's compressor starting up snapped her back to the present. Realising the fridge door was still open, spilling cold air onto the carpet, she selected one of the ludicrously overpriced cans of Cola and popped the ring on it before settling back into her seat. Coffee at this stage would have been preferable, but getting a tea and coffee making set in the room was more expensive than the soft-drink, and would probably just be instant and teabags anyway.

Take a step back: the subsidiary, Hermes, was a freight forwarding business; it was feasible that some of the money was being channelled its direction. A quick check on the internet would have been able to confirm how that company operated; if alternative shipping firms, land and/or air transport were part of its protocol, but the Blackers had agreed it would be pertinent to keep their internet usage locked down whilst in Northern Cyprus. Similar to Omurtak's airfield, it was somewhere they did not particularly wish to be found.

_Omurtak, now there was a thought._

Moving quickly to another folder on her computer, Monty opened up the spreadsheet of his manifest. Running down the series of dates she found that which most closely corresponded to Eleni's oddball payment...

...which was a shipment from the airfield the Blackers had visited. More specifically it was the shipment of disparate weights which had sent the fratello there in the first place.

Swapping back to the iPad ledger photos, she located the pages for the same general time period; no movement out of Cyprus. The girl allowed herself a slight smile, in that case, if Omurtak's shipment and Eleni's payment were actually related, it was possible that whatever the cargo was, it remained on the island. That was the sort of lead which made trawling through spreadsheets worthwhile, and since she had already made as start, it might not be a bad idea to keep comparing Anagnos's dates against the rest of Omurtak's manifest…

* * *

><p>A coded rap at the door caused Monty to look up from what she was doing. Outside darkness had well and truly fallen, evening sounds of a working city having evaporated into the late night. The rap was followed by a lock tumbler rattling as someone fought with their keys and Jethro let himself into the room, at first carefully and quietly, but realising his girl was still up, quickly shut the door behind himself.<p>

"I thought you must have hit the hay."

The cyborg shot her handler a flat look, "What, and risk you locking yourself out and waking me up again? Not likely."

Turing in her seat to drape an arm over the back she continued, "How did you fare?"

Jethro sat down on the end of the bed, facing his girl and started to undo his tie, "About as well as expected..."

"That bad?"

"Oh lay off. I found a few people to give me pointers after others who may be of use. I'll chase them up tomorrow; with a bit of luck throwing out enough feelers will convince Talik to find us rather than vice versa."

"Just don't forget we need to be back in Lemesos by the end of the week," returned Monty.

"Fear not, I haven't." Relieved of his neckpiece, the handler kicked off his shoes and moved the lot to a set of hanging hooks by the door which stood in for an actual cupboard, "How about you?"

Passing her partner's iPad over to him, Monty started, "If you take a look at that there's consistent black traffic moving from Panama to Cyprus and/or up through the Black Sea to Odessa. No correlating Monaco data though, which makes me believe it's either unrelated or part of a standard route... financed by regular payments through the Fairmont."

Jethro returned to the bed as his girl continued to bring him up to speed, letting her talk while what she had to say sunk in.

"...which got me onto running Anagnos's ledger against Omurtak's manifest, this is interesting."

Lifting himself up off the mattress again, the handler took his iPad and leaned over Monty's shoulder as she pointed at something on her own computer screen, "There's a Turkey-Genoa route from Anagnos's bit, which always takes place within a few days of Omurtak shipping a consignment from the airfield we visited."

"Now that _is_ interesting," there was a pause while he digested this. "Maybe goods are coming into Turkey, then being split to different clients?"

The cyborg nodded, "That was the thinking. Considering the sea route is going to Northern Italy there's a solid chance it ties Omurtak to the Padania..."

"...not to mention suggesting that Anagnos Shipping isn't just an income stream for them, but is also involved in doing the Separatists' dirty work," finished her handler.

"We already suspected that."

"Yes, but I like having confirmation." Pausing for a second, Jethro sat back down on the bed. "With that in mind, you said there was a regular run out of Panama?"

"Yes, to Lemesos and Odessa."

"Didn't Hermes recently open up an office there under its expansion?"

Now Monty looked troubled, "From memory they opened a few offices in South America; what are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that if Anagnos is doing more than just creating income for the Padania, and Hermes is a subsidiary of Anagnos, that the expansion sounds suspiciously like laying down infrastructure: fronts, contact points and so on."

"I don't think I like the sound of that," replied the girl levelly. "Hermes is scattered all over the globe now, and investment along those lines suggests they're digging in for an extended fight."

"Exactly," Jethro stood and stretched. "It gives us a couple of options as to where to go next though: back to Turkey, up to Odessa or across to South America... I say we see what falls out of the woodwork back in Limassol and take it from there."

"I'll keep trawling through this for a bit," put in Monty, tapping her screen, "see what it turns up."

"And I'll go mull it over in the shower," returned her handler.

His cyborg paused for a moment, "If you don't think you'll find our money launderer tomorrow, I might work through a bit tonight."

"Oh no you won't, this is a small room and I want sleep; you're coming to bed as well."

* * *

><p><em>Night time in Famagusta.<em>

Traipsing along the quay of the city's small boat harbour, situated on the southern end of the port, the Blacker fratello carefully checked the names on each vessel they passed. Behind them rose the well-lit bulk of one of Northern Cyprus's few five-star hotels and beyond that, through barbed wire and under the watchful eye of Turkish Cypriot and UN forces, the abandoned ghost town of Varosia.

Looking back over his shoulder, Jethro tried to get a glimpse of the darkened tower blocks.

"There's an archaeological museum in there," he said, half to himself. "Terrible waste… of course the collections are long gone."

Monty spared a moment to give her handler a quizzical look, "Do I want the story of how you know that? No-one's supposed to have gone in there since the Greeks fled in '74."

"Trust me, I'm a doctor."

"And yet you _never_ went to university."

"Obviously the education system isn't stringent enough... Here we are, _Saladin_."

Stopping, his cyborg took in the vessel to which he referred, and couldn't help but think that the name was overly grandiose for the somewhat decrepit looking trawler riding on her lines in front of them. Holding her tongue as Jethro stepped forward to address a burly man working near the boat's stern, she instead contented herself gauging how much of a threat was being presented. He was big, but a heavy wool jumper made it difficult to discern an outline.

"We're here to see Talik."

"Names?"

"Hayden Conway and Marie Bliss."

Patently someone had forewarned the disguised guard as he didn't reply, merely grunted and motioned with his head for the pair to go aboard. Stepping onto the boat's transom, Jethro reached back to take the stylish, khaki canvas duffle his girl carried before she followed him off dry land. Monty hadn't been happy about her partner using an old SIS cover, and with good reason: any slipped mention of it would likely throw up a flag within that organisation. However, as he pointed out, it was the name Talik would associate with his face.

Seemingly the tactic had paid off. Using a known alias of Hayden's, the spy continued his search for three days with no success. However, as predicted, he was not the one to find Talik, and on the fourth day Talik found him; or at least a front-man had and that encounter finally led the fratello here.

Entering the trawler's cabin, the Blackers found themselves confronted by another of the assumedly fake crewmen, who directed them to remove their jackets. Monty maintained a stony expression as large hands, despite her small frame, gave her a longer and more thorough pat-down than her handler. It did however give her a good chance to study their new escort. Though dressed similarly to his associate outside, the heavy outwear wasn't concealing as much of his stouter build, and under the ribbed wool the cyborg could just make out the outline of a bulky firearm. Not only did Talik's guards look like the sort of people who wrestled bears for a hobby, but they appeared armed to take down whatever they couldn't beat into a bloody pulp as well.

Apparently content, the trawlerman motioned for the fratello to collect their things and follow him below. As he opened a timber door to allow them passage into the galley, it dawned on Monty why Talik's guards were so big; behind the crew's table sat a small, wiry man with a white beard and the girl would be damned if he was a day under seventy. He wore a similar navy blue turtleneck jumper to his crewmen and a battered white captain's hat set atop his head. The overall effect would have been comical, but the eyes under the hat's brim were sharp and watchful and just as suddenly as the disguises had, the trawler ruse also made sense... this was the whole package.

Standing up, Talik nodded to his guard who took up a position near the door, and held out his hand to Jethro, "Hayden Conway, it has been a long time."

"Almost a decade by my count," returned the former SIS man.

"Mmm, sounds about right, and who is this?" enquired the wizened Turk, in a surprisingly pleasant tenor, turning to Monty.

"Marie Bliss, my... understudy."

"Mister Talik," greeted the cyborg, extending her own hand.

"A pleasure to meet you," replied the launderer, taking the hand and looking her up and down. "Mmm, I remember the days when you wouldn't allow a woman on the job for fear of bad luck... how times change."

Releasing Monty, Talik motioned to the chairs bolted down around the galley table. "Take a seat, and lets get down to business, I wish to mmm, catch ebb tide. What do you have for me?"

While the old man retook his place, the Blackers sat down opposite him. Depositing the duffle on the table Jethro started, "How do you feel about Euro?"

Folding his arms the Cypriot shrugged, "Major currencies generally do not cause problems, just the other week I had Russians here wanting to clean some US hundreds, but mmm, I digress."

Monty's face remained impassive, but her ears pricked up. It could just be a co-incidence, but there were plenty of easier places than Cyprus for those in the former Soviet Bloc to take money for laundering. More likely someone already in the area had gone to Talik, like a flight crew, and there was only one source of US money needing cleaning _she_ knew had passed through locally. Of course there were any number of unknown factors which could be at play, but never the less it remained interesting piece to add to her puzzle.

Next to the girl, her handler had entered into negotiations. "We'll need it back reasonably quickly."

"How quickly," returned Talik, "Five million will take some time to work over."

Five million Euro amounted to half the Blackers' take from Monaco. After overheads and expenses had been covered, profits from the job had been doled out between their crew. That slated for the Alboreto fratello had gone directly to the SWA, whilst the Paganis weren't included in the split as not technically existing to the criminal contingent. Jethro and Monty had retained ten million of their share, which was funnelled into the "job kitty", a rolling slush fund maintained on the understanding it would be utilised to help finance their continued work on the SWA's behalf. While this required a certain amount of trust on the government's part, the arrangement allowed the fratello a degree of freedom and minimised their traceable ties back to Rome.

The Turk was speaking again, "If you want it in a week then I will be looking for a thirty percent share."

"Not going to happen, I'll give you ten."

"Ten for mmm, a month."

Monty allowed the back and forward to wash over her, letting Jethro do the deal while she sifted through what was being said for any extra information which could be gleaned. Having the Euro cleaned quickly would be nice, but neither fratello member truly expected the luxury of a week turnaround. That did leave them in the awkward position of not knowing if they'd still be in-country, or even able to return, once the cash came through. Still, there were ways around that as well; it would simply mean trading more of their margin for the convenience.

"You don't honestly think I'd be willing to give up five hundred grand for you to take a month? Three weeks for that, maximum."

"For which I'd want fifteen percent. If you don't like it, give up the security I mmm, offer and go somewhere else."

"Eleven."

"Fourteen."

"Twelve and I'll let you choose how to get it back to us."

The cyborg gave her handler a sharp look at that, but his face remained impassive.

"Mister Conway, I think we mmm, may have a deal."

"Glad to hear it..." Jethro replied, reaching across the table to shake hands again. "...but I want to know how this is returning to me before I leave," he continued, patting the duffle.

Talik reclined in his seat, arms folded as he studied his associates from underneath the peaked brim of his captain's hat. After what seemed like an age he leaned forward again conspiratorially, "I will need to mmm, sort out details, but are you familiar, Mr Conway, with the principal of a 'dead letterbox'?"

The former SIS agent gave an internal smile, best to play a bit dumb for now, "I believe so, but refresh my memory."

The money launderer's eyes flicked between handler and cyborg. Giving the younger slightly more of his attention, his features took on the air of somebody's grandfather about to tell a good story. "Back during the Cold War, I helped the British and CIA run intelligence trawlers up into the Black Sea. To stop ourselves being too, mmm, too exposed, we kept as little information aboard as we could, dropping off or picking up packets at each port visited. We could visit ports too with a little bit of cunning, and I can still speak Russian like I grew up on the streets of, mmm, Odessa."

Grinning a little now at a memory, Talik continued. "Our boats were large enough that producing microfilm aboard was reasonably mmm, easy. So when hitting port we'd leave our canisters wherever mmm, we had been instructed to. Then make a mark to inform our controllers it was ready to pick up: a scrape or a chalk line... They of course had corresponding marks which, if we saw them, would tell us there were new instructions waiting."

Monty fought down the urge to glance at her handler to see how he was getting on looking interested. Dead letterboxes were old tradecraft, still useful to an extent, but with short lifespans in their physical form and certainly something she was well and truly aware of. Much of her own correspondence with the SWA came via similar means, albeit as a digital analogue.

"As I said though, I would need to work out details," finished Talik, "how much longer are you here?"

"Another few days."

"Then I will have instructions before you, mmm leave. Where are you staying?"

"The Altun Tabya," replied Monty. "Do you have a notepad?"

Talik nodded to his guard, still standing vigilant by the door, who retrieved a notepad and pen from a side shelf and Monty scribbled down the number of a room two doors up from the fratello's.

Taking it the launderer glanced at her writing, "I assume you're staying under the, mmm, same alias which you used to grab my attention, Hayden?"

"Indeed."

"Good, my friend here will escort you ashore."

Stepping back onto the quay, with the fake crewman still behind, Jethro ushered his girl north along the port's waterfront, walking in silence. As the trawler eased out of sight behind other moorings, Monty spoke quietly. "Care to tell me what brought that on?"

"Brought what on?"

"Letting Talik choose how he got the money back to us."

Realising what she was driving at, the handler shrugged. "It was a bargaining chip."

"And a dangerous one."

Slipping an arm around her and giving her shoulder a squeeze, Jethro continued. "I wouldn't have tried it on just anybody luv, but Talik's always had a reputation for being thorough, cautious, paranoid and maybe even having some actual espionage experience."

"Really? I suspected that story might just be all gaff."

"Could be that too, or at least an embellishment, but he breaks it out every time he wants to impress or show a client how covert he can be. I caught it last time, and those who've dealt with him say the same."

That explanation didn't quite seem to satisfy the girl next to him. "And you're willing to believe some geriatric's story?"

Jethro shrugged again, "Alboreto's a geriatric and he seems to be doing alright. Besides, you don't get that old in this game without being at least _some_ good. Look, if I hadn't been comfortable about it I would have just offered him a few more percent as commission and been done."

"Hmm," changing tack for a moment Monty eyed her handler. "Those Franklins he said passed through here. Do you think they could have been..."

"Could be, but you've got to remember that those ex-Soviet crews get all over."

"Would Talik have recognised forgeries?"

"Depends on how good they were, and the flips side is would he care? He takes his cut from the clean, legitimate currency; all he'd need to do is find someone silly enough to take the fakes off'f him."

Unlike its successor in Lemesos, Famagusta's port had lain quiet and almost dormant since being declared closed by the Republic's government when the city fell. The warehouses at its waterfront were small by modern standards and only a few feeder ships moored by the quay. Never one to miss an opportunity, Monty grabbed photos of each vessel anyway as the fratello walked past, careful to capture names and home ports, as well as any identifying features which could not be so easily altered.

As they reached the end of the waterfront and turned back toward the town and their hotel, the girl put her phone away and pulled in close next to her partner again. "Next step I take it is to mop up with our CEO?"

Jethro nodded, once again slipping his arm around his cyborg. "That was the plan; any thoughts on the how or where?"

Monty paused for a moment while she thought, "Her office is nice and secure, but that's half of what makes me uncomfortable, especially after our run-in after the last visit: it's her home turf and short on exits."

"Not to mention how the roof extension hooks into the rest of the building creates a decent choke point one floor down," her handler added.

"Notice that too did you... How do you think she'd take to a last minute venue swap?"

"Probably not well, that's a lady who likes to be in control." After a couple more steps he shrugged, "At least we'll a have a day or two to mull it over."

* * *

><p>Adjusting the thin lapels of her suit, Monty looked down from behind frayed lace curtains at the gravel square below. Shade trees once covered much of it, but only a few orange leaves still clung doggedly to their branches as winter washed away the colours of autumn. To one side, Jethro sat seemingly engrossed in his newspaper and coffee at a small cafe, the mismatched assortment of umbrellas now folded and stored so its patrons could luxuriate in warming sunlight.<p>

Taking her eyes away from her similarly suited partner, the cyborg flicked them over the square's surrounding buildings. Many of the windows were covered as hers was, and she let her vision wash into the infrared, hoping to pick out a lurking figure or two should they be present. Unfortunately the sun-warmed stonework played havoc with that plan and she subconsciously blotted it out of her visible spectrum again, going back to trying to pick up a movement here or discoloured patch of darkness there behind obscuring drapes.

Reaching down for assurance it was still present, Monty touched the document container lying on the floor next to her, protecting Jethro's all-important Cézanne forgery. The plan was simple; she would wait here to keep an eye on things and the painting out of the way until her handler had made contact with Eleni Anagnos. Then, once he was sure the CEO wasn't about to pull a fast one, and if Monty found no immediate threats, she would join him for the handoff.

_Simple was good._

The downside was that, having only arrived back in Lemesos from Northern Turkey the day previous, there hadn't been time to set up a proper hide, so the fratello was flying somewhat by the seat of its pants. Hence while the cyborg's eyes roamed outside, her ears were locked firmly _inside_ the apartment which she had broken into half an hour ago. All the signs said that the occupant was a worker; from a soiled gap in the line of shoes by the door to orange high-visibility clothing hanging on a small drying rack; single too if the pile of dishes in the sink were anything to go by... none of which took Monty off edge. It was times like this that Murphy had a nasty habit of stepping in.

_Still, hopefully she wouldn't need to remain for much longer._

Right on time, Eleni appeared in a gap between two buildings and started across the square toward where Jethro was sitting. She wasn't alone and Monty recognised the second woman, having glimpsed her previously, just before diving under the CEO's desk. Her eyes flicked to her handler. If he was surprised by the extra it wasn't showing, and as the two approached he didn't make any move to wave the cyborg off. Willing to follow his lead for now, she went back to sweeping the surrounding buildings, trying to pick any changes since the pair's arrival.

* * *

><p>Folding his paper up as the two Cypriots approached, Jethro leaned back in his chair and made a sweeping gesture to encompass the empty places around him, "Take a seat."<p>

Eleni and her companion accepted the invitation, the younger opening up her laptop whilst Anagnos fixed her art broker with a hard stare.

"I got your bike courier, it was very short notice."

The SWA man grinned, "Well yeah, giving lots of notice would sort've defeated the purpose of a location change."

"I'm a busy woman Mister Harrington, I do not have time to go gallivanting around the city on a whim."

"Which is why we're within walking distance of your office. However, you're about to hand over twenty-five million Euro," now his face became quizzical, "I _assume_ you'd like to do that as securely as possible."

"A little more notice _would_ be appreciated next time," The woman's tone changed and she gestured to the girl with the computer. "I believe you've already met Elissa, my PA?"

"Briefly," he reached over to shake the hands and throw her a friendly smile. "And your role here is?"

It was instead Eleni who answered, "Your Melinda said to expect a wire transfer. That requires a computer, which means I require Elissa."

"Fair 'nuff."

Jethro gave Elissa an appraising look; decked out in a similar skirt suit to her boss it would be easy for the PA to hide a small firearm, and considering Eleni's bodyguard was nowhere in sight it was probably a fair bet at least one of the women was carrying. What neither seemed to be about to do however was try and wrest the painting by force, so if his girl hadn't seen anything, and so far he hadn't been given a "walk away" signal, then she may as well be down here.

Finishing off his coffee, Jethro placed the empty cup atop his folded newspaper, signalling Monty she could join him when ready.

Eleni it seemed had also noticed a glaring omission to the scene, "I would ask Mr. Harrington, where my painting is. If you intend to take my money today, I would appreciate some recompense."

"With Melinda."

"And where is she?"

Jethro gave his best nonchalant shrug, "Hopefully not too far off, she had an errand to run which must've held her up. Could I interest you in a drink?"

"That's very expensive property to give to such a diminutive girl."

Now the handler eyed his client and quirked a smile, "Yes, who _would_ give such a valuable item to a waif like that."

As if on cue Monty stepped into view, trotting across the square with the document tube tucked under her arm. Arriving at the little group she took the spare seat next to her partner and leaned her load up against the table between them.

"Apologies for being tardy Alex, Ms. Anagnos..."

"Elissa," put in Jethro.

"...Elissa."

Monty reached over to shake hands with the last. As Elissa stretched across the table to return the gesture, her short jacket lifted to reveal a glimpse of a small pistol holstered in her waistband; seemingly the PA had a broader job description than merely intercepting paperwork. That wasn't unexpected, and quietly Monty hoped that her own outfit was doing a better job of concealing the PPK in its shoulder holster. Potentially more concerning though was that the Cypriot's firearm was significantly smaller than whatever Eleni's bodyguard at the gallery had been carrying. Now the CEO was walking into a higher-risk situation with less protection; was she really working toward keeping a low profile, or did she have backup somewhere close by? The question would have been easier to answer had the cyborg been able to get a better look into the surrounding windows, unfortunately all she could do for now was remain on guard.

"Well I think we've wasted enough time," started Eleni. "Elissa has twenty-five million Euro ready to be transferred across to an account of your choosing, but first I want to see my merchandise."

Reaching down beside himself, Jethro handed the document roll over. "Knock yourself out, but quiet like."

Taking the roll, Eleni popped its top off and pulled the canvas inside partway out. Peeling the exposed corner back, she studied the revealed brushwork, before Elissa handed her a phone with a picture on its screen to compare against.

Out of the Cypriots' field of vision, Monty's eyes narrowed; no-one other than the fratello and their client should have had a chance to take that. _Welcome to the digital age Eleni._

Anagnos put the painting back into its tube and clipped the cap down. Sitting next to her the cyborg cocked an eyebrow, "Satisfied?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll have that back until you've wired payment," she finished, taking the document roll off the elder woman.

Jethro laid a gentle hand on his partner's thigh out of sight under the table, but fortunately Eleni seemed unfazed by the comment and nodded to her PA, who swung the open laptop around to face the Blackers.

"If you would care to check the payment amount and enter a destination?"

Leaning forward, Monty ran her gaze carefully over what was displayed on the screen while her handler relaxed back in his chair to keep an eye on their companions. Content with what was displayed, she rapidly typed in an account number and spun the computer back to Elissa. Taking a moment to scan the information again, the PA tapped her computer's track-pad.

"Sent."

The cyborg however kept her hand firmly on the top of the document tube, rooting it to the spot, "You'll excuse me if I'd like to wait for confirmation."

Reaching into a pocket she then extracted a cheap flip phone and placed it on the table. "Transactions can take a few minutes to come through, so would either of you care for a drink?"

Eleni gave her a hard look, "I think we might leave those go. Harrington, I find your partner's continued lack of trust somewhat insulting."

Jethro didn't get a chance to reply.

"Don't take it personally," came the deadpan response, "I merely happen to like a bit of certainty around larger transactions."

Fortunately, the CEO was saved answering by a buzz from the table. Picking her phone up, Monty flipped the mobile open to read the message before pocketing it again. Then she held out the document tube.

"This, I believe is now yours."

Taking it, Eleni stood, her PA following suit, "Thank you, a pleasure doing business Mr. Harrington."

Without waiting for a reply, the pair headed for the edge of the square, leaving the Blackers behind them. Monty watched the Cypriots go, then flicked her eyes around the area again. Now would be another optimum time for someone to make a move, though what they could hope to gain from it was uncertain. However, just because she couldn't immediately think of a good reason didn't mean someone else wasn't capable of convincing themselves they had one.

Nudging his chair closer to hers, Jethro leaned over to his companion, "Did you have to wind her up at the end?"

"Someone needed to play the hard business end, I think we're both in agreement that Anagnos isn't exactly the most trustworthy client," replied the girl, turning her head to look him in the eye. "_You_ can't as Alex, he's supposed to be relaxed and cocksure, so it may as well be me."

"Touché. C'mon luv, we'd best be turning tail as well."

Standing, Monty allowed herself to be guided toward the square's closest exit whilst keeping an eye on the surrounds. As she and her partner entered the alley, the cyborg strained her ears to try and hear anyone following them until the next turning allowed her a brief glimpse behind.

_Nothing._

Pulling in closer to her handler she felt his hand move from the small of her back up across her shoulders, putting them in range to walk and talk quietly. "So I take it we _were_ wired the correct amount?"

Monty nodded slightly, "Yes, I'll get a message to Rome tonight so they can start working to pass it on... which reminds me."

Extracting the flip phone from her pocket, the cyborg started to quickly disassemble it. Still unwilling to trust Eleni, the Blackers had sent her payment not to one of their working bank accounts, but to a quarantine one unrelated to them or any of their aliases. There it would wait for a cooling off period until Priscilla's contacts in Italy's _Guardia di Finanza_ could be used to have the account seized, preferably as part of some unrelated investigation. Section Two's bubbly intelligence analyst would let something "slip" to a friend and hopefully the idea should snowball from there. While it would smart that the money wasn't going to the SWA directly, most of it should somehow filter its way back through the system.

What tapping an external agency meant however was that there could be absolutely no way to track the transaction back to Jethro or Monty. Now with the phone's back off, the cyborg removed its battery, which went in the rubbish, followed by the SIM card. That she trod on heavily to crush it before dropping it into an open stormwater grate. Finally, bending the phone's hinge backward she broke it in two, subjecting each half to the same indignity as the SIM and throwing them in separate bins.

_Well, that was one less thing to do._

* * *

><p>Still unwilling to assume that they were in the clear, Jethro and Monty plotted a meandering course back to their lodgings, and it was late afternoon by the time they jangled in through the deli's front door.<p>

Constandina was again manning the front counter, speaking quickly in Greek to a middle aged woman towing a small child in her wake. Trapped in place, the teenager nevertheless threw the arriving pair a grin and cheery wave such that her customer turned briefly to see what the commotion was over. Returning the greeting, a move mimicked by Monty, albeit with substantially less enthusiasm, Jethro guided his girl to the drinks fridge and removed two Chinottos before taking a place in the queue.

"Hi Mr. Blackall! Megan, sorry I can't stop right now. Just those?"

Placing the two little glass bottles down the SWA man replied, "Just those. Where's your father?"

Constandina pouted at interest being shown in someone other than her, "Went to run some errands, go to the bank or something, that sort of thing... do you want the tops off?"

Jethro shook his head, "No it's fine. We'll be upstairs, join us when you're done if you feel like."

The high schooler perked up at that, "Sure! I'll see you in an hour or two!"

"Cheers."

Collecting the bottles, Jethro ushered his girl toward the back of the store. In the rear courtyard, the fratello's Europcar rental was tucked in next to the Allroad, and the Brit couldn't help but wonder what the rest of the area's occupants thought about the burgeoning number of vehicles starting to clutter up their space. The truck drivers delivering to the surrounding shops certainly couldn't be overjoyed about it.

Stepping into their warm apartment, Monty flicked on the outside light and unfastened her jacket so she could pass her shoulder rig and pistol off to her handler. Then, pulling up a chair at the table, she set her computer booting whilst Jethro hid their firearms and made for the kitchenette to pop the tops off the drinks. Setting one down in front of his partner he placed a cold hand against her cheek...

Sighing slightly when that failed to garner a response, he pulled back to lean against her chair instead. "You're going to get on to Priscilla?"

"Mmm hmm." Taking a sip from her own drink the cyborg continued, "Then I'll see if anything has come through from Rome. Knowing our luck they'll have been trying to raise us for the last week."

"We've dropped off their radar before, I'm sure they can survive it again."

Monty turned back to her laptop, but didn't get any further as from outside came the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Half a minute later, Caesare stuck his head through the sliding door.

"Ah! Dina said you were back. I am not interrupting anything?"

Monty kept her face impassive and closed the MacBook's lid, "Nothing important, come in."

Making his way across the small living area, the Cypriot landlord slumped into one of the dining chairs, causing the aged wood to creak alarmingly.

"How did you find the North?"

Jethro took a seat next to his cyborg, "Rundown and just a little bit depressing. It really hasn't moved since the seventies has it?"

Caesare's face darkened, "That is what happens when you let the Turkish run things."

Jethro held his tongue, deciding not to voice the other side of the argument that the Turkish invasion had in no small part been a response to the inequitable power share by Greek Cypriot leaders.

"It seems to be moving forward a bit now that the Green Line is open though."

"_Hmph_, leeching off the South."

Feeling that it was time to change the subject, he turned to the girl next to him, "Megan, could you go grab next week's rent?"

Monty nodded and, grasping the proffered opportunity to remove her computer, headed for the bedroom while Caesare went back to talking with her partner.

"You wish to stay another week?"

"If we could."

The Cypriot grinned, "Most certainly, though I am going to have to ask how much longer you intend to keep two autos here."

Jethro grimaced, "They're in the way?"

"A little, our delivery driver was not pleased. One is fine but…"

"Ah. Well the second one will be out late tomorrow, we only really had the Ford to cross north, but it's on the company's tab so I'd like to get full use of that while I can."

"Ha! Fair enough."

Returning to the table, Monty handed a roll of Euro notes to Caesare, who thumbed the loose corners checking the full amount was present. Content, he pocketed the cash.

"Dina will be glad to hear you are staying," he looked thoughtful for a second. "She seems to be swearing less now, though we will see how long that lasts after you leave."

Jethro reached over to squeeze his girl's shoulder, "I still think she'll grow out of it."

Monty sat back in her chair as the two men chatted, keeping on ear on proceedings while she mulled over what needed to be done in the next twenty-four hours. For starters she wanted a better look at Lemesos' port. A bit of a bird's eye view would be preferable, there was only so much Google Earth could do and it didn't always have the most up-to-the-minute satellite photos, not to mention the potential to leave an electronic trail. She also needed to go through Eleni's shipping ledger to try and find what had arrived in Cyprus recently so she could prioritise containers to look for, then...

The cyborg's train of thought was derailed by the sound of the deli's door slamming shut and feet on the stairs again. Unlike her father, Constandina announced her arrival by clattering through the doors and spinning the remaining chair next to Jethro around so she could sit on it backwards.

"Hi again, Mr Blackall! Everyone."

Monty gave an internal sigh, patently the girl's sense of decorum hadn't refined any during the fratello's absence. Besides, it was night outside now and dressed the way she was the child must be freezing.

Caesare spoke first however, "Did you lock up Dina?"

That garnered a pout, "I _am_ capable of remembering to lock the store _Pateras_."

"I know, but _did you lock up_."

"_Yes_, Jesus."

"Dina!"

Stepping in, Jethro interrupted the brewing fight, "I hope you didn't have to put anyone out so we could remain here Mr. Sofokleous."

Constandina lost all interest in the argument, "You're staying on?"

"We've paid for another week at least."

"Awesome! Do you think you'll still be here for Christmas? If you are you should totally have Christmas with us! _Pateras_, can they have Christmas with our family?"

Her father gave Jethro a wan grin, "I'm sure Mr Blackall and Megan have their own family they want to spend Christmas with Dina."

The spy however shrugged, "Honestly I don't know where we'll be; it'd be nice to get home but sometimes things just don't pan out that way."

"You don't see your family at Christmas?"

"Sometimes," put in Monty. "I have a couple of sisters who live with other relatives, but frankly I think I got the better end of the bargain, holidays at home or no."

Standing, Jethro put a hand on each of his girl's shoulders and grinned, "These days most of the family seems content to let us black sheep wander."

"Speaking of home," he continued, "how are you two getting back?"

Constandina glanced at her father, "Walking."

Releasing his cyborg, the handler gestured at where the Sofokleous' painting was still propped up on its easel, "How about I drive you and we take that along?"

"_Yes!"_

"Then I'm afraid to say we should get going. It's been a long day and I still want feeding before bed."

Constandina raced over to unship the painting and Jethro gave his girl a wink, "Megan? You want to come with us?"

"No, but I'll order dinner from here and you can pick it up on the way back if you like." She quirked him a smile, "Besides, I doubt you'll fit the four of us plus that canvas in the rental."

As the spy herded the Cypriot pair out the door, Caesare having taken possession of the painting from his daughter for safe keeping, Monty stood up to retrieve her computer again. Contacting Rome would need to wait, there were now more pressing planning issues to deal with. First stop, sadly: Google Earth.

* * *

><p>Monty crouched in a grassed ditch just off one side of the asphalt, charcoal outfit concealing her in deep shadow. Fifteen meters further on was an intersection, connecting into the Port of Limassol's perimeter road. Driving the fence line that morning, she and her handler had quickly come to the conclusion that the approach was uncomfortably open, too open for a direct run in. As such he was now parked in a separate side road in case a fast exit were required, whilst she waited here for opportunity to literally roll past.<p>

It would be helpful if opportunity hurried up. Tonight marked the last consignment set as arriving into Cyprus by Eleni's ledger at the time of copying. After this the fratello would be guessing, and the girl wanted to be able to cover as much ground as possible in the time available.

At the sound of a heavy vehicle approaching she hunkered down and reached back to touch the PPK now holstered in the small of her back, concealed by her dark skivvy top. With a roar of tyres and hiss of airbrakes the truck passed by and the cyborg poked her head up as disturbed air and bouncing stones buffeted her position.

_No good._

The car-carrier turned left toward the Port's main entrance. Earlier, Google had informed her that the car storage area was on the far side of the port, fronting onto the ocean itself; what she needed was something with a container on it. From back along the road came the noise of whirring tread blocks intermingled with a large diesel engine, and Monty disappeared into the ditch again.

As this truck rumbled past she looked out from her hiding spot.

_Opportunity it seemed had arrived._

Continuing her rise she sprinted after the slowing semi-rig and the bright orange intermodal container it towed, white lettering down the side of which proclaimed it as belonging to "Hermes". As the truck rolled almost to a halt at the intersection, the cyborg ducked underneath and swung herself up out of sight between two I-beams forming the trailer's backbone. Settling as best she could, Monty braced against the steel as her new conveyance jerked into motion, turning right and heading, she hoped, for the port's second entrance. Thundering along the perimeter road, tyres kicked up loose bits of gravel, battering the girl hanging from the undercarriage and she thanked whoever may be listening that the port gate was only a short distance away.

Of course if this container _wasn't_ going there she could be in trouble.

Much to her relief however the truck soon slowed and, allowing herself to hang a little lower, Monty glanced around to see where she was. Just up ahead, the port's security post was coming into view and she disappeared into the darkness once more.

With another jerk and hiss of brakes her transport halted and over the idling diesel the hidden girl could just make out crunching boots on gravel, followed by voices conversing in Greek. Late at night as it was, without the prying eyes of managers or supervisors, the Blackers were hoping that the gate guard would be less inclined to give the truck a once over.

From up near the cab came a peal of laughter and a torch beam waved lazily across the ground below her, but wasn't followed by a human body. Another laugh, then the sound of boots crunching away and the semi-trailer jolted into motion again.

Trundling through the gates the driver kept his speed down, idling along at the posted limit. To the seaward side, Monty could see hardstand and containers slide into view, and the truck slowed to a crawl as it turned between the towering, darkened, canyons of steel. Now was her chance, this was going to hurt.

Lowering her feet till they hovered just above the road skidding past below, the cyborg waited half a second then dropped, tucking and tumbling as the trailer's rear tyres crunched past over coarse chip asphalt either side of her. Without waiting to come to a halt, she used her momentum to roll upright and dashed for the containers.

Concealed in the relative safety of shadow, Monty took a moment to dust off and take stock. She was in a narrow gap between stacks of TEUs, terminating at wide thoroughfares for vehicle access. Creeping to the closer end she cautiously peaked around. Toward the sea were a set of warehouses and her former transport idling toward them, at the other... just a fence then darkness. Unfortunately she'd not been able to get her own aerial view of the port but, assuming Google was correct, this container hardstand area lay toward the western end of the facility, just in from the perimeter road. Beyond those two warehouses should be the hardstand Anagnos's superintendent had been so keen on preventing the Blackers from taking a look at, and the quay along the main basin.

_Well if Anagnos didn't want her there, then that's where she wanted to be going._

The question was how to make the journey. Google had shown the other end of these containers as being visible from a major access road, the same road down which she and her handler had travelled with Costa Papoutsakis two weeks previous. With people still operating outside the warehouse, moving in sight of that was to be avoided as well; which left her standing here, separated from her goal by walls of steel five or six containers high and over forty feet deep.

Monty stopped at that. Five or six containers high, high enough in fact to keep their tops well out of the sightline of anyone on the ground.

Jogging along the row so she stood approximately at its centre, the cyborg pushed herself against one of the steel walls, then took two steps forward and leapt at the far side. Her feet contacted metal and she pushed herself off and up, ricocheting between the artificial canyon's opposing faces. Back and forward, back and forward until one final leap sent her flying across the gap to catch the top of the stack. Cautiously, she peeked over the metal lip, looking toward the two things in the port which would be high enough to get a sight line on her. Fortunately the furthest cranes on the quay were dark, and those servicing the closer berths appeared to be busy unloading containers onto the dock, which probably meant the crews of the ships they serviced were also busy. Beyond those, on the far side of the secondary basin, a warship flying the flag of the Hellenic Navy and a cruise liner rode on their moorings. The last two were a little far off to cause immediate trouble, but it would be wise to get this done as quickly as possible all the same.

Monty was about to haul herself onto the upper intermodal unit when something closer by caught her eye. About three hundred meters to the right, between her and the section of the minor basin used by small boats and barges, was another hardstand area, its containers stacked lower than where she was. Toward the water end, light glowed from between the tightly packed boxes. Not the harsh light of work lamps either, but dimmer, like car headlights or a campsite.

_That might just warrant checking out, and it wasn't too far off her route to the quay._

The girl turned back to the task at hand, she could use the warehouse or the detritus stacked along its side as cover most of the way to the other hardstand, but one step at a time. Scrambling over the top of the container, Monty sprinted low down its forty foot length and leapt out across the next gap. Keeping her trajectory as flat as possible in order to stay under anyone's sightline she came in low, caught the top of the next stack of containers and, absorbing her impact against their doors with her legs, used the stored energy to flip herself onto their top and keep running.

Run, jump, catch edge of next stack and spring onto top, repeat.

Reaching the last tall pile of intermodal units the girl flew across the gap, fetching up against its vertical face. Instead of continuing on this time however, she shimmied along till she came to a set of locking bars for the doors and slid towards the ground, using the steel rods as handholds controlling the speed of her descent.

Touching down on solid earth again, Monty slunk along the rear set of containers to remain wholly in shadow, until she could just see past those between her and the warehouse. In front of an open roller door her truck sat silent, its driver circling as he released the clamps which secured its load to the trailer. As he undid the last twist lock, another employee walked up with a clipboard which was handed over.

_Obviously she still wasn't going around that end._

Trotting back along the row, the cyborg reached the open pavement overlooking the port access road. Listening intently to make sure there were no vehicles approaching, she peeked around the corner and made her way quickly to the front of the container stack. There she repeated the process, looking around the edge to check none of the workers near the open door were turned her direction. Coast clear and taking a deep breath she dashed out across the exposed ground, up on the balls of her feet, keeping her run almost silent. Somewhere out of sight a diesel engine started up and the girl dove for the detritus of industry piled up against the warehouse wall.

_Just in time._

Bunkered down behind a metal fuel cell, Monty watched as a reach stacker appeared around the end of the building. Looking for all the world like a giant forklift, albeit one which had crossbred with a mining truck and a bulldog, the contraption turned awkwardly through ninety degrees and lumbered off toward where the semi-trailer waited, a darker shadow following covertly along the warehouse wall in its wake.

By the time she drew close to its work area, the stacker had secured its load and with a rev from the engine and whine of hydraulics, lifted it clear of the trailer. From the darkness behind a twenty foot container, the cyborg burned the truck's numberplate into her memory for later reference; this was getting more interesting.

Standing on the semi-rig's side step, another orange-clad worker spoke through the passenger window and pointed toward the quay. As Monty's former transport followed the pointing finger off, the stacker lowered its cargo and rolled through the open door into the warehouse proper.

_Now why would they do that?_

Shipping containers were water-tight, so there was no need to keep them out of the weather and, for all intents and purposes, near-on indestructible. In fact the only real reason to take one inside would be if you wanted to open it up out of the weather or away from prying eyes... and Lemesos' winter sky was currently dry and clear. Had it not been for light pollution off the city and port she would have been able to see the stars.

Moving into the gloomy gap between her container and the warehouse wall, Monty crept forward until she was just back from the vehicle door. No-one remained outside and, retrieving her phone from a pocket the girl typed in her pass code and held it so the camera sat just proud of the opening, snapping a quick picture.

Consulting the little touch screen she could see the container had been placed broadside on to the entrance, with the stacker still towering over it. From this angle she would be doing well to get a look inside, but if someone would be kind enough to empty it for her... Another photo and the doors were now open, blocking from view what went on behind. Voices speaking in Greek floated out into the night, but were rudely interrupted by a grinding rattle from the far side of the opening. Glancing left, Monty felt the wall at her back vibrate as the vehicle entrance started to roll shut on motorised tracks.

_Blast._

Another photo showed someone just visible around the container's own access talking animatedly to another concealed individual and the next a tantalising glimpse of a forklift disappearing behind orange-painted steel. Then the roller door shut with a clang, sealing what was going on inside from sight.

Monty studied her final photo: the forklift was backing out of the forty foot metal box again. Just visible was the edge of a wooden pallet, but what it carried remained frustratingly hidden from view... the cyborg shrugged: a problem to wrestle with once she had the time to do so. For now there were more immediate jobs to deal with. Repocketing her mobile, she checked the coast was clear and dashed across the exposed warehouse door and into another patch of shadow.

Continuing her stop/start pattern of movement along the building, she was soon level with the next hardstand area, somewhere in which lay the bright patch she had seen from atop her tower. Checking left and right, Monty once again bounded across the open asphalt between her and the safety of darkness before disappearing into the unlit steel maze.

Working toward the waterfront, the cyborg strained her hearing, stopping intermittently to remove the minute sound of her own footsteps from the equation and give her the chance to check her next move. She didn't know how cautious these people were, but best to plan for the worst; and if she had been running the show then there would be outer sentries posted, just to trip up miscreants like herself sneaking around.

The first of the human tripwires appeared as a red-orange glow in the gloom, bright tip of a cigarette illuminating his face. He had no visible weapons, but that didn't mean he wasn't armed and keeping those out of sight meant the man just looked like someone skiving off for a quick fag. Careful to stay outside the dull pool of light from the smoke, Monty detoured around him, moving deeper into the container pack.

Safely out of sight of the sentry she stopped again to get her bearings. Climbing a set of containers stacked two high, the young spy peeked over the top of the steelwork. Her destination was another fifty or so meters away, spilling dim light into the night air, accompanied by the hum of running machinery mixed with human voices floating across to her ears. That was hopeful.

Taking another few seconds to survey the scene, something else struck the girl: from where she was, she couldn't see any sentries. These people had been careful enough to disguise their outer guards as workers; surely they would also have people controlling the high vantage points. Monty's eyes wandered across the yard, checking the few stacks of containers sitting proud of their fellows, then out across to the harbour and the ships moored there.

_The ships, of course..._

More specifically the naval vessel, they couldn't very well have armed men wandering around in plain sight of the military. If that were the case then whoever was running the operation was taking a huge risk simply by being active with that ship in port at all. Either they were stupid, which given current evidence didn't seem like the case, greedy, or there was some more pressing driver which prevented them from remaining dormant.

Monty dropped back to the asphalt, of course the concern over the military swung both ways and she was going to need to be doubly careful not to get spotted either. Whatever these people were up to, she was perfectly content to let them continue on their merry way until all the pieces of the puzzle were in place. One thing sure to ruin that plan would be a bunch of army grunts crashing their way through the operation.

Moving a couple of containers closer, the cyborg stopped to listen again. Intermingled with the background drone of machinery was now another sound, higher pitched and harder to hear at a distance: a repetitive, regular, snap-hiss. The last time she'd heard a sound like that had been on another job with Jethro...

One of the taller container stacks was only a few rows down. Considering its position, she wouldn't have been surprised to find it normally occupied by another guard. Getting a hold of the door locking bars, Monty clambered up the three metal boxes and edged her way across their top on her belly until she could peer down into the work area.

The sound of an active printing press was louder now, albeit from one which remained out of sight, though a couple of containers placed end-to-end with their doors open gave her an inkling of its probable whereabouts. A press on the scale needed to run currency wasn't a small piece of equipment and working inside those units would have to be terribly cramped and hot, not to mention dangerous. However, it also made a lot of sense: they were a good disguise and, should someone come prying, it'd be easy enough to pack everything up and load it onto the next departing ship or truck. Unfortunately they were currently broadside on to her position so she couldn't confirm what was actually inside; best to use this lookout to scope the lay of the land, then move around to try and get eyes on the machinery.

In the clear area onto which the work containers fronted were two Toyota Hilux utilities, their headlights providing illumination with a bookish looking man wearing glasses leaning against one of them, consulting a tablet. Of more immediate concern however were the four men stationed around the perimeter of the area. Though they wore dock-standard high-vis, each sported a black tactical vest over the top, concealing his shirts' reflective tape, and held a Kalashnikov rifle in his hands. While Monty, like all the cyborgs, enjoyed a certain level of bullet resistance, getting shot was not an experience she particularly relished and this seemed like another good reason to stay out of sight. Personal preferences aside however, if there were people down there with military grade hardware, then that was all the more reason to treat them as professionals. With that in mind it would probably be a good plan to take a squiz at the press then scarper.

Before the girl could move however, a new figure appeared out of the open intermodal units and a thin smile crept across her features as Costa Papoutsakis stepped into the cool air, carrying a black nylon duffle bag and a single large sheet of paper. Wiping his brow the Cypriot moved toward the man near the utilities to whom he handed the paper. Taking the sheet carefully, Costa's be-speckled associate peered closely at it before holding it in front of one of the Hilux's headlights. From where she lay, Monty could clearly see the repeating pattern of green-toned rectangles which made up a fresh sheet of US hundred dollar bills, each one falsely spreading that country's monetary power just that little bit thinner. The American fiscal situation however wasn't her immediate problem. What was, was where those bills were ending up and how one had found its way into the wallet of a deceased associate. Edging her phone out of her pocket she snapped a quick photo, hopeful that even if the range wasn't good, it might be able to be blown up and still keep some legibility.

Back on the asphalt the bookish man, whom the cyborg guessed must be keeping an eye on the prints' quality, possibly even the original creator of the fake printing plates, was pointing at the sheet. Moving his hand as if cutting lines across the paper, he babbled something in indecipherable Greek which wafted its way up through the night. Beside him, Anagnos's superintendent shrugged, before kneeling down to open his duffle and extract something which was passed over.

Holding that also in front of the headlight, the quality controller inspected the edges, before running a thumb across the end of the wad of banknotes. Leafing back through the other direction he inspected a few more closely and handed them back to Costa with a nod, who returned them to his bag. Closing the duffle up the superintendent threw it inside his dual-cab and made for the driver's door.

Memorising that numberplate also in case she lost sight of her target, Monty edged back from her position and headed for the ground as the utility pulled away. Wherever that bag was going, she wanted to be there as well… pity she was on the wrong side of the work space.

Skirting its perimeter as quickly as she dared, just in the darkness behind the first row of TEUs, the girl made her way to this particular laydown's extremity. Looking out from its edge she was just in time to see Costa's Hilux trundling across a wide expanse of asphalt, toward the minor basin where an intermodal carrier's bulk rose high above the quay. Positioned as the ship was, her hull obscured work onshore from the naval vessel moored across the water whilst massive cranes moved container after container off her decks.

Monty weighed her options. To her best guess from where she stood, and from what Google had spat out, there were over a hundred meters of open ground between her and the temporary, transit laydown the cranes offloaded to. That was too far to risk crossing in one go. To her right, immediately between where she stood and the port's secondary basin, fronting directly onto the water, was another smaller hardstand. That stretched the full length of the waterfront from here to the facility's fence line. She was however separated from it by another vehicle access, wide enough to park six semi-trailers across side-by side. Moreover, the closer to the waterfront she got, the easier it would be for those working at the ship to spot her.

Option B was the warehouse she had skulked along the wall of after her arrival and its twin. Both of the long metal structures terminated in line with the temporary laydown, meaning she could move along their ends, behind the equipment stacked there, in much the same manner she had earlier. As a bonus, the further that direction she travelled the more obscured the view between the quayside workers and her would be. The issue there was the large gap between the two structures she would need to cross.

_Lesser of two evils._

Steeling herself, Monty checked the immediate area to make sure no-one was looking her direction and tore out from cover, travelling low and fast through the open before dumping herself behind a pallet of 44-gallon drums placed next to the warehouse wall. No angry shouts or running footsteps followed, that was probably a good thing.

Juggling speed and stealth, it took the girl another five minutes to put herself within viewing distance of where the wharfies were working. She was still a little too far back to get a really good look; but high above the cranes remained in action, steel boxes trundling along their length from the ship to shore. With their operators focused downward to watch where they dropped their loads, she dared not move any closer lest they see her in the bottom of this manmade canyon.

Costa's vehicle was now parked next to a semi-trailer, hooked up to a 40 foot intermodal unit; the same semi-trailer Monty realised, as that she had ridden into the port underneath. Now the superintendent was standing on the prime-mover's step, saying something to the driver through his window, the black duffle hanging from one hand. Seemingly finished, the man returned to the ground before walking out of sight behind the truck.

From where she was, the cyborg's acute hearing picked up a clank, followed by a string of what could, despite being in Greek, only be cursing and the scrape of metal on metal. A short pause ensued before the scraping sound again and clang of a heavy door closing. Costa appeared back into view, hands now empty. Gesturing a "thumbs up" to the driver, he headed for his own car as the truck's engine thundered to life.

_Looked like the chase wasn't over. _

As the semi started to edge forward, Monty retrieved her phone to type out a quick message. This was going to be tight, and she couldn't leave just yet.

Hunkering down in the shadows she waited, keeping her breathing calm and even. Instead of the blunt nose of a prime-mover however, it was Costa's Hilux which appeared first, flashing amber light helping to beat a path for the behemoth behind. Slowly the truck started to slide by, first the cab, then the trailer with its illicit cargo. Both drivers now past and certain as she could be of not getting spotted, Monty vacated her position and started making her way toward the landward end of the temporary laydown.

At the edge of the area she stopped, hiding for a second time until the utility and its charge turned right, past her and headed as she'd hoped for the warehouses and access road on their far end.

Waiting for the vehicles to slide behind another smaller stack of containers, Monty gave the area one more look over and sprinted out into the open toward the furthest laydown fronting onto the water. Once there it would offer cover almost all the way to the boundary fence, which would need to be capitalised on. Her one advantage in this race was that the vehicles would have to go the long way, looping back almost the full length of the freight terminal and around to make the security gate. She however could take a more direct route, but unlike her opponents, being spotted would be her greatest concern. This was the sort of exit strategy she'd hoped to avoid using, but if wishes were horses then beggars would ride.

Without slowing down she dashed into the darkened steel alleyway, parallel to the waterfront, halting only as she came to an intersection to check it was clear, then haring off again. Letting her legs stretch out, the containers on either side blurred around the corners of her vision. One more block of metal boxes to go, she might just make this…

...Monty gave a small smile as she ran, up ahead the pack ended. From there it was a short distance across open ground to the fence and, in the darkness beyond that, the perimeter road. Parked on its verge, only just visible even to her eyes, was a small saloon car; seemingly Jethro had received her message.

Pulling up short of the bare pavement the cyborg stuck her head out to check her surroundings. From the fratello's morning drive past she knew there were no cameras in the area, but Murphy's universal law said that there would be something else to scupper her plans.

For once though, Murphy seemed worryingly absent. Double checking she was actually in the clear, Monty was across the tarmac and leapt the high hurricane-wire fence in one smooth run. Rolling to absorb her landing she was quickly over the road and scooting in through the passenger door of the rental car as her handler started the engine.

"Semi-trailer headed for the port rear exit, red unmarked container on the back, registration zero-seven-twenty-B-G. Follow it."

Throwing the car into gear and accelerating up the road, Jethro glanced at his partner, "The short version?"

"The press is at the port and the money is in that container. The latter just came off a ship so I'd be curious to see what else is in it. You might also be interested to know that Costa is escorting the truck out and seems to be coordinating the whole gambit, or at least the ground side of it."

Her handler squinted away from approaching headlights and threw her a lopsided grin, "Guess he isn't just a clean, hard worker then."

The headlights flashed past, followed by a white dual-cab utility. Monty's head snapped around to follow it, "That was Costa's car."

"So where's the truck."

"_Obviously_ it's gone a different direction hasn't it?"

Not bothering to answer, her partner found the next gear and put his foot in. However, passing the port entrance there was no sign of another vehicle.

"See anything up the road?"

Monty peered into the darkness, "No."

"Ok, let's take a gamble."

If Jethro were a driver hauling contraband, the last thing he would want to do was tempt the Police by say, speeding; which meant the truck couldn't be too far off. Dropping a cog and swinging left into the intersection his cyborg had started her night at, he got the Fiesta back on the straight and narrow and throttled back, letting the little car wash off speed. Up ahead, just visible, was a set of tail-lights.

"Think that's our carrier?"

His companion peered into the darkness again and then shook her head, "Can't tell."

"Bugger, we'll just have to wait till he stops at an intersection or something," Jethro reached over to give his girl's hand a squeeze. "Keep an eye on it; I'm going to hang back as far as possible. We don't know where he's headed and may need to tail him for a while."

Following well astern of their target, the fratello headed north in silence, crossing the breadth of Lemesos before turning west onto a wide, four lane motorway. Merging into the light traffic, Jethro took the opportunity to gain some ground on the truck.

"Yes, no, maybe?"

Monty looked out the windscreen again then back to her handler, "That's the one we're after."

Feeling somewhat more relaxed now that she had been able to verify they were chasing the correct set of tail-lights the girl continued, "Where do you think he's headed?"

Her handler didn't answer for a moment, pulling back into the left hand lane to allow a particularly impatient motorist past, "This road, I think, takes us through UK territory then on to Paphos."

"The airport?"

"That, or there's plenty of places around the town for small boats to dock, no-one said whatever's being moved has to stay in the container."

"Either way, I think we have pretty good confirmation that Anagnos has _some_ hand in the Franklins." Monty flicked through her phone, looking for the photo she'd taken at the port, "Question is; are they running those primarily for themselves or some third party?"

Jethro shrugged, "Who knows? I think the theory that they're doing the Padania's dirty work, keeping it offshore and at arm's length, probably has a fair bit of merit, so it could be either."

The highway continued west, climbing into rocky hills as they passed onto UK soil and forcing Jethro to drop down a gear to keep the little Ford's engine spinning in its power band. If pressured, the handler would have admitted to being a bit of a car enthusiast, though certainly not on the level of some of the others at the SWA. The need to hurl a vehicle and himself down night time forestry trails for excitement had waned as MI6 took up more of his life, but the previous enthusiasm still lingered as a mild background interest. However, while he wasn't one to pass up a good thrash, a combination of small engine and manual gearbox didn't make for the most relaxed highway travel.

Rolling back into Cypriot territory the fratello and their target passed a major turnoff north, and then another as the road curved back toward the coast. Descending back onto flat farmland the truck turned off the motorway, heading directly for the sea.

Glancing at the road signage, Monty turned to her handler, "I think it's a pretty good bet we're headed to the airport."

"Agreed, find out where we can park this," returned Jethro, tapping the car's steering wheel.

Paphos International Airport was a recent development, and shared its runway with the Air Force who occupied the opposite side of the field. Unsurprisingly the semi-trailer continued past the airbase and civilian terminal, headed for the cargo and general aviation hardstand. As it turned through a set of gates toward one of the newly constructed hangers, Jethro swung his Ford into the hire car and long-term park, which backed onto the GA section and found a slot near its perimeter. Separating the fratello from the hanger was a temporary hurricane-wire fence, standing in until a more permanent barrier could be erected, and a wide stretch of concrete. It wasn't a perfect solution, but at least their rental wouldn't look out of place.

Locking the car, the handler surveyed what was in front of him; this would have been a lot easier if they were in Sharjah, where airport security was non-existent and one could walk straight off the street and onto the apron.

He turned to the girl at his side, "Thoughts?"

Monty eyed the open expanse of concrete ahead. While Jethro had been busy parking, she'd watched as the semi-trailer pulled up behind the hanger and the driver walked inside, "Get through the fence, run across the tarmac... I really can't see any other option, not which can be done in a hurry."

"That's what I was hoping you _wouldn't_ say, come on."

Stepping forward, the girl inspected the fencing briefly and, standing on her toes, reached up to the clamp holding the tops of its segments together, grabbing the nut and bolt there. Then, using her cyborg strength, she twisted; the metal resisted for a second, before breaking away so that she could loosen the two halves of the clamp enough to pull it clear of the fence frame. Shaking her fingers where the nut had bitten into them, she stood back to let her hander lift one of the fencing panels clear of its concrete base and swing it open the foot or so required to allow the fratello passage onto the airfield proper.

Taking note of where the opening lay lest they have to make a fast exit, both fratello members hightailed it across the open ground and pulled up next to the truck. Hunkering down in the shadow and adjusting his suit jacket to hide the white of his shirt collar, Jethro tilted his head toward the back of the trailer, indicating that his cyborg should go check it out whilst he kept watch. This wasn't somewhere he wanted to stay long.

Moving to the truck's rear Monty withdrew her picks and quickly had the container's padlock undone. Lifting the fastening bar clear of its catch she swung the door slightly open and held her phone out to illuminate the dark interior.

Costa's bag was off to one side, and resting on... the girl reached out a hand to make sure she was seeing right; timber. The container was full of raw-cut timber, whole tree trunks laying on their sides. If this was a Padania operation, then seemingly they were branching out. Illegally felled exotic timbers fetched a high price and certainly enjoyed a lower profile than other black-market goods, this was however the first she had seen or heard of the Separatists getting involved in the trade.

She was about to crawl in deeper to get a look at the bag when a hand brushed her rump. Locking her phone Monty swung around to see Jethro motioning urgently away from the truck. Quickly the girl started to climb back down, but was interrupted by the sound of multiple safeties being released… followed by a tirade of indecipherable, angry sounding Greek. Out in the open, her partner raised his hands.

_Too late._

Still half in the container, the cyborg's fingers edged toward her PPK, but Jethro gave a miniscule shake of his head: not this time. Stepping slowly from the trailer, Monty also put her arms in the air and turned to the three unimpressed looking, Kalashnikov brandishing, men facing the fratello.

One, assumedly the leader, stepped forward under the cover of his offsiders and spouted more Greek.

Shrugging his shoulders as best he could in the circumstances, Jethro replied, "I'm terribly sorry chap, but I can't understand the blindest bit of what you're saying. Do you speak English?"

Retreating well out of the spy's reach, the leader said something over his shoulder and one of the other men disappeared off toward the hanger. Behind her handler Monty's mind was racing, they'd known this was a bad situation going in and now she needed to find a way out. The girl was well aware she was far from the best fighter of the cyborgs, but the two Cypriots who remained could be taken with relative ease. The problem was that, at this close range they were just as likely to shoot her partner as they were her. Glancing at Jethro he seemed calm and content to wait things out… maybe he had a plan. Stepping on her own desire to do something, _anything,_ she waited to follow his lead.

_It had better be a bloody good plan._

Presently the third man returned with another shorter, wiry man wearing a threadbare flight suit who spoke in a thick Russian accent. "They want to know, what you do here?"

"We're aviation enthusiasts, couldn't get a decent view out from the carpark so we found a way in."

Having been caught red-handed the story wasn't likely to hold much water. However, Jethro had joined the spy game with a firm idea of how it should be played, which included that if one were captured then, as an Englishman, one should adhere to certain standards.

The Russian translated that and the rifle brandishing Cypriot laughed out loud. Then, without warning he stepped forward and rammed the butt of his AK-47 into Jethro's gut before uttering something else.

"He say that you speak bullshit."

Behind her handler, Monty fought down her conditioned urge to step in, doing so now would likely get them both killed.

"Tell him he should learn the language before deciding what I've spoken," wheezed the winded spy.

The translation was made and the lead Cypriot chuckled again.

"He say you stop being smart donkey."

"The term is 'smartarse' and it has nothing to do with hoofed animals of any form."

Shipping his rifle the leader gave another order over his shoulder and stepped toward Monty.

"You will be searched."

For the second time in as many weeks, the girl kept her expression flat as large, rough hands ran over her body, along her arms, lingered momentarily around her chest then down her torso, over her crotch and down the front of her legs. Then up the rear of them to her butt and...

...searching fingers found the holstered PPK. Suddenly her inspector's demeanour changed. Withdrawing the little pistol he stepped back and, apparently deciding the girl wasn't worth interrogating, waved it angrily under Jethro's nose, talking again in Greek.

"He want to know what 'aviation enthusiasts' would need with gun."

"Boy scout's motto: be prepared."

Looking much sterner the Cypriot leader motioned one of his offsiders forward who relieved Monty of her iPhone, wallet, lockpicks, folding knife and a small vial of conditioning pills. Her partner was similarly striped of his possessions before both had their hands zip-tied behind them.

Something else was said and the Russian translated, "They say would like to dispose of you now, but military too close and we behind schedule anyway. So you come for ride for boss deal with on other end."

Monty felt the cold press of a gun muzzle between her shoulder blades. Stepping up beside her handler as they were frog marched toward the hanger she muttered quietly, "I thought you had some sort of plan."

"Have we been shot yet?"

"No."

"Then the plan's working."

Passing through a personnel access into the brightly lit hanger, the fratello were greeted by a towering form which they both recognised to be the tail of an Illyushin IL-76, its massive rear loading doors gaping open. The reason for that was made immediately apparent as from outside came the sound of a large diesel engine turning over, followed by the incessant beeping of a reversing warning. Directed to sit in two chairs by the wall, a single guard was left to keep an eye on them whilst the Russian headed toward the plane and the other two men dashed for the hanger's vehicle access. As it rolled open the semi-trailer backed slowly through and, under the direction of the plane's loadmaster, up the ramp Illyushin's ramp into its vast hold.

Mostly ignored now as the crew crawled like ants over its cargo, hooking up the plane's internal handling cranes, the Blackers were able to get a better look at what they would be riding in. One of the favoured heavy lift transports across the globe, both partners were intimately familiar with the IL-76, or "Candid". This one was painted a patchy grey, with the blanked out tailgunner position of an ex-military aircraft... most likely one of hundreds which had simply disappeared from the Soviet arsenal at the end of the Cold War. Designed for rugged conditions, they offered significant advantages over their US and European manufactured counterparts; not least of which was being somewhat cheaper and offering a certain barn door simplicity of engineering which made for easy repairs with minimal tools. Moreover, as this particular example was now demonstrating, the IL-76 was capable of operating entirely without ground support.

In the centre of the hanger the truck pulled out of the Illyushin's hold, its former cargo now suspended in the air. As the loadmaster lowered his new steel box to the deck, one of the Cypriots pulled open the container's door and threw the black nylon duffle there to the Russian translator. Assumedly the plane's captain, and thereby de facto head of its crew, he ran a wad of bank notes through his fingers and nodded.

Now it was the Blackers' turn and they were herded up the ramp to be positioned in two of the jump seats which ran along the fuselage wall, facing the container and still under their guard's watchful eye, whose scrutiny was joined by curious looks from the Russians. A familiar mixture of jet fuel, grease, stale sweat and vodka which permeated the interior wafted to Monty's nostrils; the smell of a working aircraft. In some ways that was almost comforting; it was the smell of people living day to day, and probably unwilling to make their own lives any harder by making _hers_ harder.

Fifteen minutes elapsed before the loadmaster signalled he was content with the container's fixings and the cargo doors shut with a clang. Almost before they had closed fully there was a lurch as the aircraft was pulled clear of the hanger followed by a cough and whine as the first of its four hardy turbines came to life. Now unlikely to damage the hanger with its jet thrust, the plane started to roll under its own steam and one of the guards strapped the fratello into their seats, covered by his colleague. That was it, without the use of their hands they were stuck there now. Prisoners safely secured, the Cypriots cleared their weapons' chambers, safed them and removed the magazines, the last thing anyone needed was an accidental discharge in this pressurised tin can.

The Illyushin stopped and there was a whine of hydraulics as its flaps came down, followed by a change in pitch from the engines and a roar as the thrust reversers closed so the captain could back it right up to the runway threshold. While the load being carried today was, in the great grand scheme of things, reasonably light, no Candid driver wanted to waste an inch of potential takeoff run.

The engine pitch changed again, building to a crescendo and the massive hauler started to roll, gathering speed while the pilot held it on the ground. After what seemed like an age, Monty felt the nose wheel lift and the plane climb laboriously into the air. Luxuriating in having a lighter load, its captain pulled the nose higher, then banked hard, turning north.

* * *

><p>Safely at altitude, Jethro and Monty's guards released themselves from their seats, leaving their charges strapped in while the Russian loadmaster walked around his container double checking its restraints. Seemingly assured it hadn't moved he settled back down at the front of the hold and poured a mug of what Monty recognised as very cheap but exceedingly strong vodka. Congenially he offered some to the Cypriots, who accepted; either these men were less professional than those she had encountered at the port the girl figured, or they had a few hours in the air ahead of them. They did however motion for only a small amount, probably a smart move; the quality control on those bottles was not great at the best of times, and some of the stingier or hard up aircrews has a nasty reputation for supplementing their contents with cleaning spirit.<p>

Somewhat more to her ire, the guards then took to amusing themselves by going over the fratello's belongings. While the guns were left alone, wallets were rifled through and Monty's folding knife tried out on anything which came to hand. Briefly they attempted to access the two iPhones but quickly gave up on that idea, probably filed into the "too hard" basket.

The last item on the table was the thin orange vial containing a single stack of pills. The cyborg had quickly learned that jobs often had a habit of transporting her unintended places, such as the current unfriendly skies, or blowing out in their duration. To maintain some flexibility around those occurrences, she had taken to carrying a small supply of conditioning medication on her person, enough for a week or two, so she and her partner could roll with the punches a bit as they came.

Now one of the guards brought the vial over and waved it at her, rattling the little white tablets inside, "What?"

"They're mine, I wouldn't touch them if I were you."

"What?" He waved them again.

"They're mine... happy pills."

_Technically that wasn't quite a lie._

The guard looked confused.

"HAP-PY PILLS," repeated Monty, slowly and loudly like someone talking to a moron.

"THEY MAKE ME HAP-PY," she tried, pulling her face into a fixed, manic grin.

That seemed to get through and the guard began unscrewing the lid of the little plastic container.

"NO!"

The man stopped briefly, then leered at her before walking away. While his back now obscured what he was doing from view, the girl saw him tip his head back, before saying something to his companions in Greek and offering the vial.

_First sample's free._

The conditioning drug's oral form was meant as a maintenance dose, not to give a sudden jolt like the EpiPens many fratelli carried into combat, but that didn't mean it was slow acting. More than once a forgetful cyborg's first realisation that she was late for her medication were niggling withdrawal symptoms, and the doctors and engineers had accounted for that when designing it.

It didn't take long, maybe fifteen minutes. The first sign something was wrong was the vial's first taker sitting bent over with his head between his knees, breathing fast and clutching at his chest over his heart. Then the first spasm hit him and he fell to the floor, writhing in a pool of his own vomit as muscles heaved uncontrollably. The other two, having seen what happened to their colleague raced for the bucket which served as the aircraft's toilet to try and bring up what they'd swallowed, but it was too late. Soon they joined their team mate as the drug, intended to help a human brain interface with its highly tuned cybernetic shell, told each body that it needed more oxygen, more energy, make the heart beat faster, get more air in the lungs, push muscles harder...

Now the pilot was holding the part empty pill bottle in front of Monty. "What you do?"

The girl put on her most indignant face, "I _told_ them not to take those. They're prescription for _me_, no-one else... bunch of twits probably thought it was ecstasy or something."

"You think they be alright for land?"

"How far away is that?"

"About hour."

"Then probably not, those are supposed to last a day or two."

The man in front of her sighed and looked at the little transparent orange container in his hand, "This is why I not allow drug on plane for fun, too much hassle. Alcohol fine, but take drug... expect to make walk without parachute."

Leaning down, he slipped the vial into her pocket and gave it a pat, "You keep away from idiots."

Walking toward the forward partition, the captain headed for where his crew had restrained the three guards and were in the process of clearing up the mess they had left. When he was well clear, Jethro leaned toward his partner. "Did you know that would work?"

"No," Monty whispered in reply, "but it had to be worth a shot."

"Good thinking Ninety-nine."

Still keeping her voice low, the cyborg went on, "So what's the plan now?"

Jethro checked to make sure none of the crew was looking. Fortunately they all seemed preoccupied with the cleanup and he motioned for his girl to look at his wrists.

"The best thing about these old aircraft is that things break, and that leaves some pretty sharp edges..."

Behind himself, the handler rotated his hands so as to bring where he had all but cut through his flexicuffs into view.

"...so I think we see where we land and take it from there. Ideas?"

* * *

><p>A heavy jolt and squeal of rubber announced to the still cuffed fratello they had touched down, confirmed by the roar of engines going to maximum reverse thrust, throwing them sideways in their seats along the fuselage wall. That was probably a fair sign they'd not exactly landed at London Heathrow, and the bouncing and thumping of the massive aircraft's undercarriage over uneven ground backed that assumption up. Monty had made a few short field landings in the navigator's compartment of IL-76s before, the panoramic glass front of which earned the plane its nickname of <em>The Cinema<em>. It was hairy business there as the ground rushed up to meet the low-hanging bulb, but not being able to see what was going on she decided was no less disquieting.

The roar of engines abated, becoming a soft whine and the girl felt the plane start to turn off whatever airstrip they had landed on. Strapped securely into similar wall seating as the fratello, with a single piece of webbing holding their upper bodies back against the fuselage, the Cypriot guards were out cold. As the plane taxied to a halt they rocked against each other like napping children in the back of their parents' car: one less problem to deal with.

A whine and crack of cool-dawn sunlight from the hold's opposite end signalled its cargo ramp opening. Obviously they hadn't taxied far, so this definitely wasn't a major airport which, Monty thought, could be either good or bad news for her and her partner. As the rear doors came fully open, the navigator emerged from his station clutching one of the former guards' AK-47s. Unlatching the fratello's seatbelts he stood back, motioning with the rifle.

"Out."

Standing up with her handler, Monty took a moment to stretch and roll the kinks out of her shoulders and neck as best she could.

"Out."

Wordlessly, the SWA agents walked along the side of the shipping container, down the ramp and emerged blinking into crisp dawn sunlight and biting cold; wherever they were certainly didn't enjoy Cypriot style mild winters. The Russian pilot was conversing with two burly looking men, both also brandishing the ubiquitous Kalashnikovs next to the ramp and, as her eyes rapidly adjusted, the cyborg was able to take in the rest of her surroundings. What she saw brought at thin smile of recognition to her lips... Rocky outcrops on one side of this valley gave way to more open formations opposite. A short distance away was a row of wooden huts, their windows grimy or shattered, facing onto the hard packed earth of the apron and bookended at one extremity by a much larger warehouse. Seemingly this Turkish airfield wasn't so abandoned after all.

There was a new addition since last time she had visited. Between herself and the old Soviet buildings were parked a group of vehicles; two large, older model saloon cars and two trucks; one an ancient looking Unimog. The other was a semi-trailer with a crane built into the flat tray behind it and a tarpaulin covering its small load. This, assumedly, was to be used to carry the container off the plane once it had dispensed with its current cargo... whatever _that_ was. One of the saloons was parked across the front of the semi, blocking its exit while four men stood to one side, sharing a cigarette. The other car rested a few metres from the 4x4 Mog at the warehouse end of the group, pointed out toward the flight line.

They were being urged to move again and the Blackers marched up in front of the two new arrivals. Looking between the pair of them, and then to the rifle wielding navigator one of the men turned to the pilot, "Where are the guards?"

Seemingly English was the only language both sides shared, and the Russian proceeded to tell the story of the guards and Monty's conditioning drugs.

Finally the, assumedly Turkish, man sighed, "_Puşt _Greeks..."

_Definitely Turkish._

"...I do not want them, keep them on your plane."

The Russian pilot held up his hands, "I no want either."

"Too bad, they're on your aeroplane now. Take them back to Cyprus, throw them out in the jungle or over the Atlantic for all I care, just not here," shipping his rifle he stepped toward Monty. "These ones however..."

That was the chance she had been waiting for. As the man came closer the girl suddenly dropped, whipping around the knock his legs out from underneath him. The Turk hit the pavement hard and she took off toward the line of buildings, second guard in hot pursuit.

Reacting to his cue, Jethro snapped the last little bit of plastic holding his flexicuffs together. From behind him there was a clatter as the navigator dropped his AK and joined the pilot heading for their Illyushin's ramp; they were hired to fly not fight, and the spy let them go for now. However, as the Turkish guard picked himself up he was met with a solid right hook. While not as skilled of a fighter some of the other handlers from military, police or special forces backgrounds, the ex-MI6 man could still throw a punch and his hook was followed by a left jab and uppercut. Taken by surprise his opponent tumbled backwards to the ground again, permanently, his skull landing with a sickening crack.

Massaging his knuckles, Jethro bent down to retrieve the man's rifle, and checked it over before firing two rounds into the other abandoned firearm. If he were one of the Candid's crew he'd be wanting to leave as soon as possible, it was time to ruin those plans.

Starting toward the plane the spy stopped for a second and turned toward his felled opponent...

"_Knockout_ performance."

* * *

><p>Haring across open ground, the sound of running behind Monty was rudely interrupted by an extended roar of automatic gunfire.<p>

_Well, now everyone had to know something was amiss._

Ducking and weaving as rounds peppered the pavement she made for the radio hut's shattered window. Briefly the hail of bullets ceased and a magazine clattered to the ground; picking up speed the cyborg took advantage of the short respite and leapt for the empty frame, vaulting off it across the dusty space inside before fetching up against the far wall just as more fire smacked into the weatherboard exterior.

Still in hot pursuit, her assailant leapt through the hole as well, dropping just inside and his boots thumped onto the floor. Then he staggered, yelling in surprise as the rotten boards gave way under his impact and sent him crashing onto the ground a foot below. It wasn't much, but that was all Monty needed. Her powerful kick connected with the momentarily stunned man's head, twisting it around, snapping his neck and he slumped forward with a thud.

Mustering up her strength, the cyborg pulled hard on her cuffs until they parted, then bent down to pick up her former opponent's rifle. Pulling the magazine clear to check there were still rounds left then reseating it, she searched the corpse in front of her. No more spare magazines, seemingly they had not been expecting trouble which was understandable; this was probably meant to be a simple transaction with friendly parties. She did however find the man's sidearm. Checking there was a round in the chamber she flicked the safety on and wedged it in the back of her waistband.

Shouldering the Kalashnikov Monty crept toward the hut's rear door. Cautiously she pushed it open and peeked out, leading with the rifle.

Rounds sailed past her and the girl grunted as one found its way to the soft tissue of her upper arm. Squeezing off a quick burst in reply at the two men emerging from behind the next building down, she ducked back into cover until their fire abated, then swung around the corner again, releasing another burst from her gun. The first went wide, but her second volley found its mark, dropping one of the assailants.

Retreating again into the doorway, Monty pulled a wry smile; it had been a good while since she had picked up any form of long arm, patently it was going to take a moment to get her eye back in.

Her next attempt caught the other man square in his chest and she was out the door. Dashing along behind the row of huts, the girl passed where the two dead men had appeared from, past the abandoned dormitory and up behind the old mess hall. Peeking around the corner she found herself in line with the end saloon car, revealed to be a BMW 5-series if the badging was to be believed... inside a shadow was searching through the interior.

Unhurriedly Monty leaned against the building to steady herself, lined up her sights, took another breath and stroked off a short burst of fire, shattering the car's rear glass and the figure dropped, presumably dead.

Creeping up the side of the building she looked past its edge toward where the two trucks were parked just as another armed man appeared around the back of the closer Unimog. Only once in the open did he see the girl, which was too late. She squeezed the trigger again and her rifle bucked…

Once.

Then nothing. Empty. With her opponent still standing.

Realising someone had apparently been looking out for him the man raised his own gun and Monty ducked back behind the mess wall as fire slammed into the woodwork where her head had been. Ditching the Kalashnikov she withdrew her stolen pistol and flicked off the safety on the big Yavuz built Beretta clone.

More fire whizzed past as a second assailant came around the front of the 4x4 truck, forcing her further back along the building; apparently whoever had been in the car had not been one of the smoking group from earlier.

Stepping out from the wall, she fired two shots toward the man at the front of the Mog, sending him ducking for cover, then stepped out further to send two more rounds at his friend now bunkered down next to the tall rear wheel.

Return fire from the further guard sent the girl scrambling back out of sight. She couldn't do this for long; it wouldn't take much for those two to realise the closer man could flush her out while the other kept her pinned. Another burst of fire sailed past, keeping her in place, that wasn't a good sign. She had to hold them behind that truck until she could decide what to do, and she had a bit under a pistol mag to do it in. Slipping back out of cover she fired another shot toward the far enemy but more rounds from the other man reminded her she was still in check.

Suddenly his Kalashnikov was joined by the sound of a second and Monty spun toward where the fighter at the front of the truck had put himself back in the open. He however had turned the other way, looking toward something out on the airfield.

Two 9mm rounds caught him square in the back.

Not wasting time the cyborg ran up to the bullet-chewed corner of the mess and looked around. The man at the back of the Unimog was spreadeagled on the ground and, on closer inspection, very much dead. Safing and stowing her pistol again, Monty picked up his AKM and looked out across the tarmac. Leaning against the back of the Illyushin's ramp, Jethro gave her a wave, other hand supporting his own recently acquired rifle. Returning his gesture, the girl bent down to pick a fresh magazine off her handler's victim and, locking it into her newly acquired AK, headed for the BMW.

The corpse of the fifth man was planted face down across the saloon's rear seat, with a jagged hole in the back of his skull and Blackberry in his hand. Picking the latter up, Monty found it to be as dead as the man holding it, then she turned the body over.

_Bollocks._

The face staring up at her was one she recognised. It was a face she had pursued through Istanbul and which had given her directions to a cemetery. The irony of that last thought drew a dry chuckle; Omurtak's accountant was more in need of those directions than she was now. Unfortunately that probably meant the best source of information here was well and truly expired.

Pocketing the dead man's phone, she stepped back from the open door again. Figuring out just what sort of opportunity had been lost could wait, for now she had an airfield to clear.

* * *

><p>"Thanks for the save by the way."<p>

Jethro looked down at his partner, a rudimentary bandage now tied around her upper arm, and gave her good shoulder a squeeze. "Well I couldn't let you just die, that would be _far_ too much paperwork."

"_Funny_."

Entering back into the Candid, the handler had found its crew trying to remove their three unwanted Cypriot passengers from their seats. The Russians were a long time from the military, and could normally count on their usefulness and generally low standing in the criminal world to keep them alive. As such it hadn't taken much to get their attention and corral them somewhere they could be secured under lock and key. By the time he finished re-restraining the still unconscious guards Monty's fight had been all but over, though his small contribution seemed to have been worthwhile...

…_anything he could do to keep her with him just a little bit longer was always worthwhile_.

"You're sure you don't want me to see to that arm?"

Reaching up to touch the bandage the girl shook her head, "No, lets get squared away here first. There's no pain, and as long as those twits didn't go through _all_ my conditioning meds I should be right for awhile yet."

Looking down for a moment, she continued, "It would have been nice to question the accountant."

Moving so his arm went around both shoulders, Jethro pulled her in up against his side, "That was unfortunate, but for all you knew he could have been another guard about to roll out with a bazooka; personally I'd prefer you to stay in one piece. Perhaps a better thing to ask would be…"

Monty remained silent. Potential danger or no she _should _have been more careful, dealt with the other two first, or aimed to wound. Just offing someone important by accident was the sort of foul up she would expect of the other cyborgs, not herself.

"...still, we've got those three up front to question," continued her handler, jerking his head toward the three unconscious Cypriots, "and the crew, though I doubt either will know much."

Coming out of her reverie, the girl looked around, "Where _are_ the aircrew?"

Letting her go, Jethro banged his hand on the shipping container, "They can probably hear us from in there, what say we let them out?"

Touching her PPK to reassure herself it was back in its holster, Monty took up a position to cover the container's access with her Kalashnikov and nodded her readiness. Shouldering his own rifle, her partner stood next to the opposite door and, using both hands, lifted the locking bar free of its catches and swung the steel gradually open.

They needn't have bothered. Crammed up into the small gap between the logs and the roof of the container, the ex-Soviets were in no position to launch an ambush and slowly, one by one, they climbed down under the watchful eye of the Blackers.

Once assembled the captain, as de facto spokesman, turned to Jethro, "What you intend to do with us?"

The handler gave him a grin, "For now? Ask you some questions."

Silence.

"Where were you meant to go after Turkey?"

More silence.

"Oh come now, your employers here are dead and _I_ have the rifle, so lets try this again: where were you meant to go after Turkey?"

The Russian hesitated for a second, before shrugging, "South America, Colombia."

"Better. Do you know who to?"

"_Nyet."_

"Do you know what you were to be carrying?"

"_Nyet."_

Jethro looked across at his girl, who also shrugged; they had spent enough time around similar aircrews to know the man was probably telling the truth.

"Did you know your employers were paying you with forged money?"

_That_ got a reaction.

"What? No. Our boss tell us we be paid in US."

"And who's your boss?"

This time a head shake. "I not know name, he contact us through _Tatyana_ and direct to hire to Turkish, he give us jobs, we do jobs."

Monty filed that away for later reference. She knew one Tatyana involved with the "lost boys", as she called them, the drifting men of the former Soviet Air Force. Based in South Africa, she organised them jobs when pickings were slim, brought them home when things went badly, got their medical bills paid when things went _really_ badly, informed their families when the worst happened and generally played mum across thousands of square miles of the African, European and Asian continents. She also wasn't the sort of person to burn bridges with, not because she was dangerous, but because she _wasn't_; doing wrong by Tatyana could find you in the middle of nowhere and with no-one willing to help out.

"Well whoever he is, he lied to you."

Stepping forward, Monty held her phone out for the captain to view. On the screen was the picture she had taken in Lemesos of Costa and his colleague, zoomed fuzzily in on the open duffle.

"You recognise this?"

"_Da."_

"Good," the girl zoomed out to show the sheet of Franklins. "You see those? Those are freshly printed forgeries, same as what's in your bag."

The man studied the picture for a moment, letting what he saw sink in, then said something foul in Russian.

"We do not mind being paid in forgeries... but some adjustment need be made so can have properly laundered."

Monty stepped back and put her phone away, "What's your name?"

"Sergei."

"And you're _sure_ you don't know what you were carrying and who it was supposed to go to?"

The pilot shrugged again, "We told very little. All just know where to go and someone meet at other end."

"In that case," Jethro started, "lets have this container out of here and your other cargo loaded up."

"What? You want finish job?"

Now it was the Brit's turn to shrug, "Well you don't know what you're carrying, or who it's going to..."

"...and we want to know both..." put in Monty.

"...So yes, I _do_ believe you still have a delivery to make."

"Besides," picked up the cyborg, "I'd like a squiz what's on those trucks."

* * *

><p>With the additional incentive of keeping their money, along with any profits from the disposal of the timber and vehicles left at the airfield, the Illyushin's crew had the container out and four tarpaulin sheathed crates from the trucks swapped into their hold in under half an hour. While they moved the semi-trailer with its new cargo out of sight, Monty lifted up one of the canvas covers, revealing a neat stack of olive-drab boxes, wrapped in plastic. Carefully peeling some of the film back, the girl withdrew one of the smaller ones and pulled the lid off. Neatly arranged inside was a row of Makarov pistols.<p>

"Weapons, who in South America would be after these?"

Jethro looked over her shoulder, "FARC for one... I hope we're not disrupting some perfectly innocent gun running operation."

His girl put the box back and shrugged, "Well it _was_ Padania leads what got us here."

Pausing for a moment she nodded to the three guards still strapped to their seats, "Do you think they might know?"

"We'll just have to... _ask_… when they come around, though I doubt they get told much."

At that moment Sergei walked up to join them, "We ready to fly."

"Good."

"But first," the Russian moved toward the three Cypriots, "we get rid of garbage."

"No," stated Monty firmly, "we need to talk to them, we take them with us."

"I not fly with onboard, too much trouble wait to happen."

"Then we'll just have to stay here till they come around."

Now Sergei fixed her with a look, "You say that take days maybe, I not stay on ground that long. Even if did, still have schedule to meet and we are late."

Coming up behind, Jethro put his hands on her shoulders and started to massage the dense muscle there, "Leave it go, at the end of the day I'd prefer to see who's on the receiving end of this deal than wait to get information out of a bunch of grunts. Besides, I have an idea."

Releasing his girl, the handler turned to the Russian, "Sergei, grab a few of your lads and get this lot out of their seats. Monty, bring your rifle."

Calling his crew, the pilot started to unfasten the Cypriots' restraints, while Monty shouldered her Kalashnikov. There were only two loaded and functional AKMs remaining on the plane, both possessed by the Blackers, though with a hold full of weapons and ammunition that measure was probably something of a moot point now. Lifting the limp bodies of the three former guards between them, the SWA man and aircrew carried them toward the buildings, careful not to let their feet drag while the cyborg brought up the rear.

Jethro turned to his girl, "Now where did you get shot?"

Seeing where he was going with this, she pointed to the end construction, "Radio room, in the back doorway."

Carrying one of the men around the wooden hut, the spy propped him limply up against the doorframe, half outside, half inside then stood back. Taking up a position near one of the Turks she had killed earlier in the day, Monty levelled her rifle and loosed a short burst into the unconscious man, walking her fire up his torso to his head. The force of the bullets knocked him back so that the corpse slumped convincingly down the stairs. Stepping over, she dropped her used AK-47 near the body to look like it had fallen from the dead man's grasp.

"The other place I took fire was next to the mess."

"Then that's where these other two can go."

The next former guard was put in the open, where the assailant behind the rear of the Unimog had been firing at and the fratello repeated the process, though this time, with nothing to prop him up against, their victim had to be rested on his knees. Moving the rifle she had discarded earlier, Monty placed it near the fresh cadaver along with the Yavuz pistol.

The final man was set up by the bullet chewed wall and the girl thought she might have seen his eyes flicker as she squeezed the trigger. Too late for him, now he served a different purpose as a prop in the Blackers' ruse.

Dropping the last Kalashnikov beside him she turned to the quietly watching aircrew, "Now if anyone asks, and they _will_ ask, the Cypriots and Turks turned on each other. Over what you don't know and probably don't care, but you completed your job like good little couriers."

"So we not getting vehicles and timber?"

Now it was Jethro's turn to speak, "Not if you intend on keeping your reputations intact and working again."

Then he looked to his girl, "Shall we?"

"I think we shall."

Pulling up beside her, Jethro leaned down as they walked toward the plane and said quietly, "If anything I think we left an impression on the crew."

"Good. I don't know how far I trust them just yet."

"That makes two of us."

Back inside the Illyushin, Sergei had the engines running even before the rear ramp was closed and soon the big transport was climbing for altitude. As they started to level off, Jethro undid his seatbelt and turned to his cyborg.

"Now how about you let me take a look at that wound, Egor, do you have a first aid kit?"

Standing up from his station and taking his bottle of vodka with him, the loadmaster went to fetch it whilst the handler untied Monty's bandage and rolled up her sleeve. Fortunately, thanks in no small part to her skinny build, the round had passed right though the artificial muscle tissue. That was worrying in one respect should the round were picked up by a forensic team, however the types visiting the airfield were probably not entirely likely to call the police.

Egor returned with a first aid kit, and stood by while his passenger extracted gauze and pair of tweezers, "There's nothing to sterilise anything with in here."

The loadmaster looked bashful and Jethro sighed, motioning for him to hand over his half-full bottle of vodka. Wiping the mouth, the Brit poured a little of the strong spirit onto the tweezers and gauze, then turned to his partner.

"This may sting a tad."

With that he splashed a little more of the alcohol on her wound, Monty putting on a show of wincing. Before he could hand the bottle back however, the cyborg grabbed it and, wiping the top again, raised it to her lips. While she didn't actually need anything to help dull pain, a little extra theatre never hurt.

Behind her handler, Egor looked on dolefully as he accepted the emptier bottle back, "She, how you say, 'tough cookie'? Especially for so pretty."

Starting to clean the bullet wound with the gauze Jethro nodded, "That's why I keep her, do you have any superglue?"

The loadmaster laughed as he left again to see after that request. Jethro figured it was probably going to be a reasonably easy one to fill as superglue, along with string and duct tape, formed an essential part of the Illyushin engineer's toolkit. Putting the used gauze down and tweezers away he suddenly realised how tired he was, and reached up to massage his eyes before starting to prepare a fresh bandage.

From her seat, Monty studied him, "You don't look very awake."

"I don't _feel_ very awake."

Egor returned with a small bottle of superglue and Jethro lifted his girl's arm up, "Now this really _will_ sting."

Holding the wound closed with his thumb, the handler carefully dribbled a little of the thin liquid into it and Monty winced, for real this time, as its bonding agent reacted rapidly with the air, sealing the bullet hole. It wasn't a permanent solution, but would at least keep the wound shut for now. Stifling a yawn he handed the bottle back and started to bandage his girl's arm up again.

Holding back her own yawn, his partner eyed him, "I think you could use some sleep."

"So could you."

"I'll be right for a couple of hours, you nod off, I'm going make a start on cataloguing what's on those pallets," she paused for a moment. "Who do you think they're going to?"

Jethro was silent for a moment. He had a few theories as to whom might be waiting in South America, but right now wasn't in the mood to discuss any of them. What he really wanted was sleep.

"Search me. Guess we'll find out when we get to Colombia."

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	6. CH06 Monty & Goose

**AND THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction by Alfisti, based on works by Yu Aida. _

* * *

><p><strong>CH06|Monty &amp; Goose<strong>

"Rise and shine Skipper."

Some part of the voice cut its way through to Jethro's conscious mind, and he followed its trail back toward a groggy wakefulness.

"Come on, up'n at 'em... we'll be touching down soon and the two of us need to get scarce before that happens."

Other noises were starting to make themselves known over the pleasantly cultured, British tones of his partner; roaring wind mixed with the whine of turbines and occasional groan from a constantly flexing airframe.

Hoisting himself up into a sitting position from the jump seats he had been sprawled across, the handler dug sleep out of the corners of his eyes before looking up to study the girl stood before him. Though she wasn't letting it show, her eyes looked desperately tired... hell, _he_ still felt knackered on twice the sleep she had enjoyed. Since their fight in Turkey, neither fratello member had dared sleep at the same time as the other, and Jethro had lost the argument over who got the most bunk time; insofar as the collection of metal tubes and hard cushions could be called a 'bunk'.

"You doing alright?"

Monty stifled a yawn, without much success, "I'll be fine. C'mon, Egor's got one of the smuggling compartments open."

Standing and taking a moment to work the kinks out, Jethro followed his partner around to a gap between two tarpaulin covered weapons pallets. In the space, with a hinged floor panel raised, the Illyushin's loadmaster gave the Blackers a beaming grin and gestured down into the cavity. "You hide till soldiers gone, they no expect any but crew."

Peering down into the hole, Monty raised an eyebrow, "It's got a window."

Egor smiled happily, "Yes, once hold escape slide, now hold extra cargo."

Cocking an eyebrow, the cyborg gestured for her partner to enter first, then followed him in. Rest assured they were both going to fit, their Russian helper lowered the floor panel down, concealing the pair in darkness, broken only by the first rays of dawn filtering through the small portal in the fuselage below.

It was a cramped fit, and Jethro put an arm behind his girl, using the other to draw her into a tight embrace and keep them both clear of the transparent opening. "So how'd you fare?"

Wiggling slightly to get more comfortable she replied, "Well you got to the third pallet on your last stint, and the fourth wasn't as packed as the others... in fact, going by the amount of plastic on it, I'd guess someone skimmed part of its contents off. Either way, we've got records and serial numbers for what's there..."

Beneath them the plane changed attitude as it started to descend.

"...the last pallet was mostly bigger stuff: RPGs, couple of heavy machine guns."

Her handler considered this for a moment, "After the pounding the Padania has taken of late, it wouldn't surprise me if they were looking to round up hardware that could dent a cyborg. Add that to the half-full pallet and it throws weight behind the argument that loads are being split in Turkey, with the other part of the shipment going to Genoa."

He paused again.

"Actually, that would make a pretty genius plan: whoever's in South America trades directly with the Turks and vice versa: timber for guns, then the Padania sits off to one side, taking a cut for having set the whole thing up and providing infrastructure... Hermes and Anagnos are far enough removed from the core organisation that they could be cut adrift with relative ease; the South Americans get what they want, the Turks get what they want and the Separatists get a steady supply of arms with relatively minimal exposure."

"'Steady stream', that sounds like another digging in tactic."

"It does."

There was another silence.

"Come to think of it," put in Monty, at a speed which said the thinking was happening out loud, "we picked up Ebanovich in the Caribbean, which is only a short hop from South America. If the Padania were using him as their front man, it would have removed their one direct line of contact in the whole bargain."

"You reckon by offing him we may have forced their hand a little, brought them closer to the action?"

The girl shifted again in her handler's arms, "Well this sort of go-between work was exactly what Ebanovich did, and it was a Hermes rep talking to Omurtak in Istanbul. At the end of the day, Hermes would be traceable back to the Separatists. Ebanovich wouldn't have been; at least not without allowing someone like Nina at him."

There was a whine and a lurch as the Candid's flaps came down, accompanied by the louder roar of wind as it swirled and eddied about the suddenly less streamlined aircraft. Leaning across her handler, Monty peered through the floor portal and Jethro twisted around to join her. Below, dense rainforest canopy spread out in all directions, its textures starkly defined by morning sunlight cutting low across the landscape. As the plane rolled again, more of the vista was brought into view. Further afield a wide river wound its way lazily past, appearing white under mist rising from its surface, and hacked out of the jungle on its banks, a long, wide clearing; an airstrip.

"I'm going to hazard a wild guess and say that's where we're going."

Monty however remained silent as her more acute vision took in details not perceptible by her partner from here.

"There's a barge moored up by the river bank," she finally put in. "Looks like its carrying lumber."

"Makes sense," replied Jethro. "Don't want to draw too much attention to one place; they'll probably be doing their felling remotely, then moving the result for pickup."

Rolling again to begin a long, lazy turn onto its approach, the Illyushin removed the airstrip from the fratello's vision. The cyborg however had had plenty of time to take in details.

"The barge looked pretty sizable, probably carries enough to fill a couple of these flights," she paused. "Actually I doubt one plane load of lumber would pay for one plane load of weapons, it'd be a fair wager to say those aircraft flying lumber back are probably only doing so to avoid running an empty fuselage."

"So what of the rest?"

"Educated guess? The rest of the timber is what's going back on the regular Panama – Lemesos/Odessa route... particularly seeing it was timber what came off the ship in Cyprus."

Light coming up from below was enough to catch the dubious expression on Jethro's face, "South/Central Colombia's a long bloody way to any of the Panamanian ports."

"That it is, but I'm sure a few of these big river systems empty out to the Pacific and Caribbean. Alternately, they probably don't need Cinemas flying back and forward across the Atlantic all the time. It'd be easy to do a short shuttle up to Panama, and there're plenty of abandoned military facilities along the canal left over from the US occupation. Then it's just a matter of meeting the ships as they transit through."

"Slow burn indeed."

Further conversation was halted by a clunk and roar as the main undercarriage bogeys dropped out into the airstream. Giving his girl one last smile as the light allowed, Jethro rolled back into the darkness, pulling Monty with him and out of sight of the window.

Feeling the familiar press of his partner's body, a wry chuckle escaped the handler's lips; the sad reality was that she was probably the most "familiar" person he knew. The spy and thievery games didn't leave much room for developing close, lasting interpersonal relationships and, at almost two years together this was the longest he'd spent with any one member of the opposite sex...

Fortunately that train of thought didn't travel any further as Sergei chose the next moment to slam his aeroplane into the ground, emphatically punctuating the last, and the roar of engines going to reverse thrust rendering extended contemplation impossible.

One of these days it would be nice to make a smooth landing at an international class airport.

Eventually the jarring roll abated and, as the engines wound down, Jethro felt the aeroplane swing around, assumedly to point itself back down the airstrip, followed by silence. Light glowing from the underbelly portal was interrupted as a shadow passed below it, followed by another, and the fratello subconsciously squeezed further away, huddling in darkness.

More minutes passed, seemingly the Russian crew were not in as much of a hurry to get their ramp down here as they were in Europe. After what seemed like an age a pair of boots tramped across the smugglers' compartment, heading aft, followed by the whine of the rear loading doors opening. Then voices, speaking broken English and the boots returning, accompanied by others.

Under the floor plates, with no airflow to ventilate the space, the atmosphere grew muggy and stale. Jethro loosened his tie so as to release his top button whilst his partner dropped her PPK long enough to roll the sleeves of her skivvy top up, in the vain hope it would help in the close air.

From the direction of the loading ramp came a whir and rumble of wheels on the decking above, then the scrape of metal on metal followed by a string of Russian curses chasing whatever bit of machinery was responsible back down the ramp. Apparently words alone weren't enough to deter it for long though as five minutes later it returned, this time whirring closer.

On its next visitation there was a clank as wheels rolled over the fratello's claustrophobic hole, accompanied by a shower of muddy water through the cracks, dripping into the already oppressive cavity where it mixed with sweat dribbling down Jethro's face. By now the compartment was stifling, but beside him Monty shifted so she could move closer.

"I've just had an unhappy thought," she whispered.

The handler twisted his head around and down, "Define 'unhappy'."

"Once they've finished unloading those pallets, they're going to be putting fresh-cut lumber in here yes?"

"Most likely."

"Tree trunks, from rainforest trees."

"Go on."

"_Tall_ rainforest trees, tall enough to take up the entire length of this bird..."

Jethro's heart sank as he saw where she was going, "We're going to have to get out of here."

In the darkness his partner nodded, "You think they dropped us down here knowing the logs would trap us, or was it just oversight?"

"Don't know and for now, don't much care," he paused, thinking. "Whatever's doing the unloading, it should only have one pallet to go. Once that happens, we'll make a break for the navigator's compartment."

"That'll leave us very exposed."

"If we stick in the passageway and close the door it'll help. Look on the upside; we'll get a better view from there. How's your phone for power?"

"Just about dead, yours?"

"Ditto."

More minutes ticked slowly past. Then the whine returned, followed by another light sprinkling of muddy water. As the unloader rumbled overhead again, Monty got a better grip on her pistol and counted slowly to thirty. Tensing slightly, she cautiously raised the trapdoor an inch so, devoid of a camera option, she could peek out. The hold appeared clear, but at the bottom of the plane's ramp stood two men, heads just visible before their bodies disappeared below the floor line, both facing away from the aircraft.

_Now or never._

Working quickly and quietly she opened the door further so her handler could stand up and steady it, before hoisting herself out of the smuggling compartment. The air out here wasn't much of an improvement on where she'd come from, slightly cooler but still thick enough with moisture to swim through. Letting her take the hatch again, Jethro was quickly over the lip and in the hold proper. Without pausing he headed for the navigator's compartment doorway, his cyborg's lockpicks in hand. Fortunately they weren't needed and as Monty closed their hidey hole to join him, she stole another look toward the back of the plane; the two men there touted Kalashnikovs and wore plain green fatigues, though even her sharp eyes couldn't make out any markers identifying to which faction each belonged.

Then she was across the intervening gap and following her handler into the short passageway leading to the Navigator's position, shutting the door behind to block out any back lighting. Sasha, the compartment's usual occupant wasn't present, and the girl crouched down next to her partner in shadow. Beyond the space's empty seat, a wide expanse of glass gave the pair a clear view out over the airfield. Unfortunately it also gave anyone standing outside a clear view in; all that they could do was hope that the dimness and plethora of equipment in the way would prevent their being noticed.

That the passage also seemed to serve as an impromptu closet space wouldn't hurt either, and Monty peered past a dank set of grey coveralls to get a better look at the airfield outside.

It wasn't that impressive.

Little more than a muddy clearing hacked from the surrounding rainforest, its lumpen runway ran parallel to the river. Halfway along, the cutting had been extended right to the water's edge, giving access to the barge moored there. Up the slope, a 6x6 articulated lift-loader was scrabbling its way, weighed down with timber and beyond it, under the jungle canopy, she could just make out the dim shapes of huts. They weren't the sharp outlines of the Soviet constructions in Turkey, but more irregular, probably built from whatever those working on the airfield had available to them. Between that, the unpaved strip and lack of a proper ramp to the river, it was probably a fair bet this wasn't exactly intended as a permanent facility.

From one of the huts emerged Sergei, just as the all-terrain truck crested the slope, and the pilot started to trudge along in its wheel ruts toward his aircraft. What the cyborg couldn't see from her position was where the pallets had been taken, but if Sergei had just exited an accommodation or administration area, it would be sensible to stow anything dangerous away from there, probably behind where the Illyushin rested.

The lift-loader had now disappeared from view toward the Candid's rear, its rumbling engine note suggesting it was positioning itself at the loading ramp. There was no way it would fit inside the plane, but the handling cranes would be able to receive its cargo.

"So where too now?" asked Monty quietly, not turning away from her position.

"Not sure, I'd like to get back here ASAP lest someone have a panic over the ruckus we caused in Turkey. How are you off for conditioning though?"

At that the cyborg glanced back at her handler, "I've probably got a week's worth left, maybe two if I stretch it."

Jethro considered this, "Then I think we'd be best to go back to Cyprus, pick up IDs, money, your drugs and come back fully prepared. Round tripping back here via one of the more civilised bits of continent we could probably do in a week, but returning to Europe is going to be tricky with no valid identities and no money."

"We have _some_ money."

"Not _enough_ though to get back in a hurry and on the sly."

His partner opened her mouth to reply but was interrupted by the click of the compartment's latch opening and Aleksandr, "Sasha" to everyone bar his mother, stepped inside...

...to find himself staring down the barrel of Monty's PPK. Lowering the gun slightly when she saw who it was, the young spy put her finger to her lips and motioned for the navigator to close his door.

Quietly the Russian complied. The next part however proved tricky; he wasn't a small man, but stepped carefully over the fratello blocking his path before sinking mightily into the compartment's seat, obscuring their view forward. Just in time too apparently, as he nodded and waved fat fingers to someone outside before turning back to the small chart table, clustered in amongst the nest of dials, switches and sighting equipment.

Starting to work a set of dividers across the map in front of him, and without look up, Sasha started, "What you two do here?"

Monty's eyes narrowed, "We thought it best get out of that compartment before you dropped a couple of tonnes of lumber atop it."

The man's face went flat, "Ah... we not think of that."

_No response._

Awkwardly the navigator unzipped the top of his flight suit and shook the fabric, trying to fan through a little air, though whether as a result of the slowly growing heat in the compartment or from some other reason remained unknown.

Seeking to break the silence, Jethro looked across his cyborg, "You'll be heading back to Europe now?"

"Da."

"And back here?"

"Not here, another crew. By time we do run again, drop point change."

Monty's head snapped up at that.

"What do you mean 'drop point change'?" she stated flatly.

"This airfield old, abandon soon," the Russian now fixed the girl with a hard gaze. "We supposed to be told new drop in Turkey, but kill man tell us."

Ignoring the veiled indictment she continued, "Define 'soon'."

"One, maybe two lifts? Two weeks on outside, no flight for us before then."

The cyborg glanced back at her handler, and he didn't need to be Einstein to know what she was thinking: a fortnight would be cutting it fine to regroup in Cyprus and get back here; too fine in fact. Which meant...

"In that case I think you'd better scribble some lines on that chart to land us in Panama."

* * *

><p>"And what would you have done if he'd refused?"<p>

Jethro shrugged, "Let them take off then forced a course change? Or done it myself."

"You've never flown anything that large before."

"First time for everything."

Monty sighed, bravado aside they had indeed been fortunate when Sergei and his crew proved willing to make the necessary detour, though in fairness the Russians had probably been perfectly glad to be rid of their unwanted guests as well. Now the lights of Panama City were spread out before her as she and her handler walked downhill from Albrook Airport. Set overlooking older neighbourhoods, the former US Air Force base played second fiddle to the larger Tocumen International further out of town whilst its twin, Howard AFB, on the other side of the Bridge of the Americas remained all but unused.

The girl looked west toward the bridge now, its spindly, brightly lit arch stretching out over the Pacific entrance to the Panama Canal, source of much of this country's wealth. It wasn't a completely clear view, and even late at night humidity hung in the air, softening its far lights. She tugged slightly at the collar of her skivvy top; whilst thin for the Cypriot winter, the garmet was uncomfortably warm here, and the accumulated sweat and grime of three days wasn't aiding matters. Rolling her sleeves up helped, but even that was limited by the need to conceal the bandage still bound around her upper arm; not only was getting shot uncomfortable but it was downright inconvenient to boot.

Perhaps sensing his partner's brooding mood, Jethro reached down to give her shoulder an encouraging squeeze, "I think we'd best look for somewhere to shack up for the night. How much cash have you got on you?"

Monty reached down to retrieve her wallet, "About twenty Euro..."

"So fifty all up."

"...and we've maybe five grand in plastic, though I don't think we should be pulling that right now."

"Agreed; a backpackers' it is then," releasing his girl, the handler motioned to a cluster of lights on the city's western waterfront, well removed from the shining glass and steel towers further up the coast. "_Casco Viejo_ should have something."

The cyborg grimaced; hostels were cheap, but didn't offer much in the way of privacy or security, and in the eclectic old city were likely to err toward 'vibrant' rather than restful. Then she sighed, "At any rate, even as we are, we'll probably be the least weird thing a hostel has seen all day."

Changing tack she pulled in closer to her partner and went on in lower tones, "I didn't want to ask on the plane, but why Panama City? It's not exactly the closest centre to where we want to go."

"It isn't, but no matter where we were dropped we were going to need wings to make the trip back in the time we have, and five grand won't buy us those. I have a mate from the SIS here though might just be able to pull some strings."

Monty gave him a flat look, "Enough strings to find a plane? Just how high up is this 'mate'?"

"Reasonably... and he's been out here awhile so knows how to work the local systems," he paused. "We're going to want to make ourselves respectable beforehand though, and the first step there will be to get some sleep and acquire _you_ some fresh threads."

* * *

><p>Leaning against the wall of a brightly painted Spanish Colonial era building, Monty surveyed the throng of people in front of her and took another sip of cola. The soft drink made poor recompense for a lack of coffee, but the fratello had to conserve money where it could right now, and nicking the glass bottle from a fridge had been a simple enough task. Her time spent in <em>Luna's Castle<em> hostel had not been the most restful ever, and added to the fatigue of the last few days she needed _something_.

At least she'd managed to lose the Europe-oriented "cat burglar" look. Her black flats and belt remained, but a rooftop excursion the previous night had secured an oversize white cotton shirt and similarly large KD Bermuda shorts from two balconies overlooking _Casco Viejo's_ narrow streets, whilst a news stand had coughed up a pair of Wayfarer-esque sunglasses. With the shirt left mostly undone and the sleeves rolled up, the ensemble made for perfectly comfortable tropical wear.

In fact, the Spaniard founded _Casco Viejo_, literally "old compound", was proving to be something of a boon. Constructed on a small, defensible peninsula after the razing of the original Panama City in the late 1600s, it now represented the area's second largest sightseeing attraction. That meant tourists, and the girl polished off her drink as she saw a potential mark up the street, walking toward her through the mass of locals and visitors. Dropping the bottle in a bin she extracted her phone and unlocked it, then stepped out into the foot traffic... one of the upsides of staying with a bunch of backpackers was that there was invariably someone with an iPhone, and willing to loan out the charger to go with it.

Fiddling with the device in the manner of teenagers everywhere she made her way through the throng before, seemingly without warning, bouncing off the waddling bulk of the foreigner she had singled out.

"Hey _watch_ it kid."

Holding up both her hands to show them empty bar her mobile, Monty offered a sheepish smile and apologetic shrug, "Terribly sorry."

"It's alright hun," put in the man's wife, "you just go use your cell off to the side of the street okay?"

Nodding her ascent and giving her best grateful smile the girl pocketed her phone, "Sorry again for bumping into you."

With that she continued on her way along the cobblestoned thoroughfare.

"_What a nice young lady."_

Certain of being completely free from the couple's view, the cyborg ducked up a side alley between tall stone residences and around another corner to get out of sight of the street. Reaching into her unfastened shirt, she extracted the man's wallet from where she'd dropped it and thumbed the top open; staring up at her was about two hundred dollars in assorted American bills. Ditching the leather carrier in a bin, she added her spoils to the wad of cash already in her pocket. _Perfect_, that should be just about all the start-up capital she needed... the young thief checked her watch, and with time to spare as well.

Ensuring the money was safely stowed, Monty cut back through the alleys, emerging into another narrow street and turning toward the sandy waterfront. Unlike where she had met the tourists, the buildings here were less brightly painted, bare stonework starting to crumble in places. Panama City's leaders had years back realised the tourism potential of the old Spanish settlement, however urban renewal had yet to reach some corners and those remained reassuringly decrepit.

Clear of the more foreigner frequented areas, the girl relaxed slightly as laughter erupted behind her and a scarred football bounced past, followed by a gaggle of children who streamed around her, parting like water. Able to spare a thought now for other matters, Monty reached up to rub at the bullet wound in her arm; it was aching, a sure sign that her last dose of the conditioning drug was starting to wear if. Pulling out her little transparent orange vial, she shook it and stared at its contents... five pills left. No, she could probably stretch this one out a little longer yet.

That thought brought her to a crossroads. On one corner was situated a bus stop and bench, upon which her handler lounged, one arm draped over a large cardboard box. Taking a seat next to him, the girl split her takings in two, handing the larger half inconspicuously over.

"Start-up for you, start-up for me... see you in a bit."

As she finished, one of the ancient buses which serviced the city rumbled up, and without acknowledging his girl, Jethro picked up his box and boarded.

It was another quarter of an hour before the next bus arrived, and she rode it two stops north toward the more modern part of the city. Disembarking she looked around to get her bearings; it would be a little while before her presence was required, so a slow meander along the waterfront and up around the promontory upon which _Casco Viejo_ resided should be in order. Mind made up the cyborg started to stroll toward the shoreline.

Less than half a block later though, something in a shop window caught her eye. Stopping, Monty checked her cash supply; she'd still have enough, and _that_ may just come in useful. Minutes later she re-emerged from the camera store, a vintage Minolta SLR swinging from her shoulder and three rolls of slide film in her pocket.

Now however she didn't have time to dawdle, and instead cut a more direct path to the foreshore. Emerging onto the promenade she turned right toward the seaward headland capped by _Plaza de Francia_, a monument to the French engineers whom had first pioneered the Panama Canal. Closed in around the water edge by raised white walls, topped by a walkway, and planted with shade trees, the plaza offered a secluded spot for those wishing to enjoy a quiet lunch... or undertake dealings which may not be quite legal. At its focus stood an obelisk, towering above its surrounds, and as Monty mounted the steps leading up onto the raised seawall footpath she could see a small crowd had gathered between it and the surrounding barricade. That was good, she shouldn't need to hang around too long.

Unshipping her camera, she raised it to her eye and pulled the film advance to cock it before fiddling with the focus. The group was mostly tourists, but with a smattering of locals thrown in and Jethro at its centre, three cards placed face down on his cardboard box, the remainder being shuffled back and forward in his hands. The crowd seemed interested, but no one had yet stepped forward.

_Oh well, that's what she was here for._

Squeezing the shutter release then swinging the camera back onto her shoulder, Monty descended the steps and ambled toward the little throng. As she approached, Jethro's voice in full swing floated over the heads toward her.

"Step right up, step right up, find the lady, turn a buck! It's simple folks, simple Simon, pick the pretty lady from the two ugly gentlemen and double your money, the only easier way to make the stuff is to steal it!"

Now she was close enough to see the wide grin plastered across his face through the press of figures. The girl gave an internal sigh_: like a small child, let loose in the proverbial sweet shop._

"Look at this, new cards, shiny new cards, you there sir saw me open the packet your-very-fine-self. Un-tampered with, how hard can it be? You there Miss! How would you like to try your eye against my hands?"

Monty stopped and heads swivelled around to pin her with their gaze, their owners magically parting the crowd to give her clear sight to the street entertainer before them.

"Who me?"

"Yes you Miss! Find the lady and double your money, even if you only guess it's one in three, simple as that, how hard can it be? Tell you what, tell you what, I'll even start it low just for you, fifty dollars, just fifty dollars buys a game. How about it luv?"

The cyborg shrugged, then turned toward the table, accompanied by a smattering of applause, "Sure, why not."

"See there folks, this pretty young thing is going to try her eye, if she can do it anyone can!"

Digging in her pocket, she extracted a crumpled fifty dollar note and placed it on the box while her handler added his own, "Fifty from you, fifty from me, now watch closely..."

With that he flipped the three cards over one at a time; Jack of Spades, Jack of Clubs and the Queen of Hearts.

"...see now? Ugly man, ugly man, lovely lady..."

Jethro's hands whizzed as he started moving the cards around, over, under, past each other and Monty hid a smile; the movements were slower than usual, giving the crowd a chance to follow his actions.

"...Follow the lady, round she goes, keep her in sight, or she'll slip by your nose! She's a tricky lady, very tricky but not impossible to catch."

The cards stopped.

"Now miss, find me the lady."

Pausing for the benefit of their audience, the girl finally pointed at the middle card. "That one."

Grabbing one of the other cards, Jethro slipped it under the centre and flipped it over; to reveal the red markings of the Queen of Hearts.

"Oh very good miss! Keep that up and I'll be broke in the hour!" her partner reached down toward the money on his box then stopped. "Tell you what, give a chap a chance, go again, double or nothing."

Monty glanced back at the crowd around them, most of whom gave her encouraging nods.

"Double or nothing it is."

"Excellent! See that folks? What's your name luv?"

"Mica."

"Mica here is confident in her eyes! She's pretty, she's smart, she's sharp... if I wasn't busy doing this I'd take her home myself!"

His hands dropped back to the box, "Now see again, man, lady, man. Keep your eye on her, don't let her stray and you'll double your dollars this very fine day!"

The cards stopped again and Monty paused slightly longer this time, one hand inside the collar of her shirt, stroking at her neck whilst she "thought". In the crowd behind she could almost feel people wanting to jump in and tell her where the lady was.

Finally she pointed at a card, "That one."

"This card?"

"That card."

"Is it the lady?" Jethro flipped the card over… and the Jack of Clubs stared up at the world, "Oh! No! It isn't the lady! Want to try again? Never know your luck in a big city."

"No, I think I'll leave it for now," returned the girl more quietly.

"Oh too bad, put your hands together for the lovely Mica!"

With that she pulled back to the edge of the onlookers, accompanied by a smattering of applause and a couple of compassionate "bad lucks", whilst her partner started up his repartee again. Now however the seed had been sown and Monty's position was rapidly filled by another punter.

And so it continued, the crowd filtering through... some won, some lost, and the cyborg kept an eye out lest anything go awry. _Three-Card Monte_ was usually a con run in a group and targeting one individual at a time, but with only her to act as shill Jethro needed to keep his players in a frame of mind where the group thought it could win, which made the going slower.

Secluded, but with plenty of passing traffic and frequented by tourists willing to trust a British accent, their positioning was at least good; the denizens of _Luna's Palace_ could be thanked for that tipoff. Unfortunately a bunk-bed at a backpacker's hostel wouldn't fill the fratello's needs tonight, and solving that problem required _money_.

As another disappointed punter walked away she reached up again to massage at her arm, the ache there was getting worse and she was certain she could feel the onset of a headache; a decent sleep in a proper bed tonight would be more than welcome.

That thought was cut off suddenly by a yell in loud, annoyed sounding Spanish and Monty glanced round to see two distinctive uniforms of the _Policía Nacional_ striding toward the crowd.

_Bollocks, how could she have let them... _

Too late to wonder now.

"It's the Rozzers! Leg it!"

Chaos.

Half the crowd stood rooted to the spot, whilst a loud authoritative voice and the mild idea that they may get in trouble was enough to spur the rest into motion, sprinting in all directions, and the cyborg joined them.

At his partner's call, Jethro shoved his current punter's money back, grabbed his box, cards, and ran like hell. Swinging past the waterfront he hurled both into the ocean before charging for the old town's alleys, ducking left and right, skidding around corners arms flailing, through the stone and cobble maze. Fortunately his was a body intended by nature to run away, and pounding feet behind slowly receded until he felt far enough in the clear to slow down. Stripping off his jacket and rolling up shirt sleeves on the trot, the conman slipped on his sunglasses and, consciously wiping the huge grin off his face, stepped out into a tourist-heavy street, melting into the crowd.

* * *

><p>"Ah, <em>human<em> again."

Still vigorously towelling his hair, Jethro stepped off the wood and iron spiral staircase leading to the suite's small loft work area. Similarly dressed in a white bathrobe, and lit by the warm light of an incandescent desk lamp, Monty closed up the back of her camera and cycled the shutter twice before eyeing her partner. "Well lets just hope your suit scrubs up as well as you have, we're not exactly in a position to buy a new one at the minute."

"That's a Boateng suit, you couldn't buy one here anyway." Laying his towel over the railing, the spy sprawled across the room's day bed and, arms behind his head, twisted around to look at his girl. "I think it should be right, it's just dirt, not scuffing or the like."

With only one set of useable clothes each, the Blackers had found accommodation able to provide them two very important commodities: a dry-cleaning/laundry service and bathrobes. While not cheap, the three-suite Canal House provided both along with, usefully, an iPad, the latter of which Monty now opened up a web browser on.

"Checking for messages?"

"Not on a public terminal I'm not," she replied, tapping away at the touch screen keypad. Lifting her camera she waved it briefly in the air, "I need to figure out what everything on this does."

"How hard can it be?"

"Don't say that... at least the lens is useable."

Putting both camera and iPad down again on the polished wood desk, the girl pinched the bridge of her nose and turned to face her partner, crossing one leg over the other as she did so, "Not that I'm unappreciative of the chance to scrub up, but would your friend _really_ object unduly to us arriving dirty?"

Jethro rolled onto his back to stare at the sloped ceiling, "In all honesty? Probably not, he's one of those who supported me when I was thrown out of the Circus... but if we show up looking like we _really_ need the help, I'm liable to wind up owing a bigger favour than I'd rightly prefer. I think going through a public school does that to people."

"He was a public school boy?"

"Eton... followed by Cambridge."

"Moneyed…"

The handler pushed himself up into a sitting position to fix his girl with a stare. "Don't let that fool you, he may look like a chinless, desk-driving fop, but he's one of the finest clandestine minds in the business; so keep your guard up."

Monty turned a flat look on her partner at that, but settled for simply, "Do I get a name?"

* * *

><p>"Monty, Sir Algernon Herbert... Head of Station now I believe. Algernon... this is Monty."<p>

"Call me 'Algy', it's a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise."

Standing on the office's polished stone floors, Monty took the outstretched hand, sizing up its owner. Algernon was probably in his mid fifties or early sixties with a rounded face and, as her handler had intoned: a certain lack of chin. The face itself was sandwiched between a sharply ironed white shirt with blue blazer and a white Panama hat. He was not, all things considered, the Hollywood picture of a master spy.

Releasing the cyborg's hand, Algy shot her a wink and looked over at her partner where he leaned, just outside, in the open doorway. "She's got the firmest grip of any Blacker Girl you've picked up yet Jethro."

Now it was Monty who turned her gaze on the beleaguered spy, one eyebrow cocked: _Blacker Girl?_

If he was fazed by the attention, the handler didn't show it. Dressed now in freshly laundered jacket and trousers, he gave a lazy grin and made his way over to put a hand on each of his companion's shoulders, "That's why, two years down the track, I've still got her."

"Two years eh? She _must_ be special then." With that Algernon sidled around behind his desk, a heavy wood construction at the end of the room, and dropped his hat atop it. "Allow me to offer you both a drink and then we'll tackle the nasty business of _business_... you're still partial to a Bahamas Highball?"

"In this weather, absolutely."

Allowing herself to be steered to one of two large Chesterfield lounges positioned in front of the desk, Monty took a moment to get a better look at her surroundings. The SIS's Central American Station was located in a sizable Spanish Colonial townhouse on the northern outskirts of _Casco Viejo_, backing onto wooded hills. Algernon's office however didn't benefit from the view and, assumedly in the interest of security, opened onto a terrace facing the central courtyard. If air-conditioning were available, he wasn't using it, and the French doors down that side of the office were thrown wide open, the breeze wafting through assisted by slow turning fans hanging from high ceilings. From the ground below drifted what sounded like the thuds and grunts of sparring practice, then the crunch of tyres on gravel followed by voices: one cultured but relaxed, the other elderly and somewhat vexed.

Joining the fratello, the SIS head of station leaned back on the opposite couch, "You realise, simply in the interests of keeping up appearances, I'm going to be obliged to have you tailed out of here don't you?"

Jethro nodded, slipping an arm around his girl as he did so, "We'll lose them, don't fret."

"Good chap," Algy paused, seeming to consider his next words. "I understand you… had a bit of an adventure in Monte Carlo recently."

"Heard about that then did you?"

"A little birdie may have whistled something to the breeze."

Beside her partner, Monty shifted into a slightly more comfortable position against him and considered Algernon's last words. The fratello had known that their role in Monaco couldn't stay secret forever, but that the first inkling of it getting out was coming from MI6 and not via the underworld scuttlebutt was slightly abnormal. The station chief's wording also suggested that Vauxhall had learned about the heist first hand, rather than through the grapevine, which made for a decent wager that the organisation had boasted an asset on the ground at the time.

She had a fair idea whom that might be.

A knock at the double wooden doors facing the balcony heralded the arrival of refreshments, and conversation ceased until a safari-suited porter had placed condensation covered highball glasses in front of each person and bowed his exit.

Picking up his drink, Jethro sipped at it, taking a moment to savour the flavour, before glancing across at his old friend, "And what of you? Anything interesting been happening in the world of Her Majesty's Secret Service?"

Algy shrugged, "Nothing particularly unusual, bit of this bit of that... had some chap threatening cataclysm and catastrophe a couple of months back that we missed you for."

"US or UK?"

"_China_ would you credit it?"

Now it was the handler's turn to shrug, "I guess the power balance of the world really _is_ changing, decade or two ago it would have been China doing the threatening. Resolved I assume?"

"London sent me some girl from the European section. Not a lot of _finesse_, but she got the job done."

Leaning back on his lounge, Algy drew at his own glass, "Now then, down to business... what brings you to my humble abode?"

"I need a favour."

"How does this not surprise me?" The SIS man gave Monty another sly wink, "I'll put it on your _tab_... do go on."

He paused, "Actually, don't... specifics only, otherwise you'll just land me in the doghouse... again."

"Oh Cyprus wasn't _that_ bad."

"It was _dull_ Jethro... _dull_. We were only there nine months and I just about went _mad_ from boredom."

"Ok then, short version," the handler took another sip of his drink. "I need wings Algy, wings which will land on water and enough fuel to reach Havana."

"And get back?"

"It'd be nice."

Now his partner chimed in, "Also a firearm of some description. Something civilian would be fine, but reliable and with a bit more range than a pistol."

The station chief contemplated his two companions for a moment, "The latter will be easy enough... slipping a whole aeroplane under the radar could be a mite more problematic."

"Doesn't need to be anything flash, you're a resourceful chap."

"I'll see what I can do."

"And we'll need it ASAP," chimed in Monty, "tomorrow preferably."

Now Algy shot his friend a suffering look, "Don't they always?"

Jethro flashed his girl a cheeky grin. "You get used to it."

"_Careful_, or you'll be on the couch tonight."

* * *

><p>"<em>Do try not to lose your tail too quickly, it upsets them."<em>

Algy's parting words still in their ears, the Blackers descended the townhouse's small flight of front steps onto the pavement outside. Placing a hand in the small of her back, Monty's handler guided her wordlessly down the street. Reaching the edge of Panama City's urban sprawl again, a glance in a passing car's mirror showed her a backpacker in cargo shorts and t-shirt detach himself from a wall and tag along behind.

"I think I've found our promised tail."

"Good, now keep an eye out for the second."

Monty continued looking ahead but cocked an eyebrow, "Second?"

"Maybe not immediately, but the first tail will just be a feint to throw us off the scent of the second... Algy's a spook; even if he wasn't doing this for Queen and Country he'd need to know what we were up to simply to satiate his own curiosity." Jethro paused, "And if I know Algy he'll consider this a good opportunity to give a junior agent some field experience."

Continuing further back toward _Casco Viejo_, the fratello's path took them past an open graveyard area, their follower stopping to shoot a few poorly directed photos, and they used the opportunity to widen the gap beyond hearing range.

Jethro slipped an arm around his girl to draw her closer, "So we should have some sort of direction on transport by tomorrow, what're your thoughts on where next?"

Monty had already been mulling this over, and answered quickly, "For starters I think we're about to need more capital than can be raised by petty theft. Considering we shouldn't be here much longer, it would probably be reasonably safe to empty these alias's accounts."

"I don't think we're going to have much choice," her handler looked slightly perturbed. "We've been burning a few more aliases of late than I'm entirely comfortable with."

"Might be worth organising one or two replacements when we get the chance."

"Mmhmm... for now though I say we find another room where we can stockpile a few odds and sods then make a shopping list for this afternoon."

"Coffee, clothes, charts, or at least some decent maps, water, food..."

"...as a start," Jethro finished for her. "Ah, here's tail number two: local, blue Yankees baseball cap."

His cyborg didn't look around immediately, instead continuing by her partner's side until opportunity presented itself, in the shape of a reflective shop window, to surreptitiously put eyes on the subject. The navy blue cap wasn't difficult to spot; despite having officially handed over the reins of their locale to the Panamanians, it remained an obvious by-product of the strong US influence here. The same could be said for the fact that the fratello had been happily paying for everything in US dollars since their arrival in-country.

Catching another glimpse of their pursuer, Monty uttered quietly under her breath, "Time to lose him?"

"I wasn't going to bother."

"Hmm?"

The man beside her gave a second for what he had said to sink in, "I wasn't going to bother losing the second tail. The first we'll get rid of, but the second... there's not a whole lot useful he's going to be able learn from us in the foreseeable future. Algy will have already decided we're not going to Havana, and to be brutally honest, just right now I don't mind the idea of having an extra set of eyes to help watch our backs."

There was silence as his partner digested this. "Ok then, so balancing act to lose the rookie but not the pro."

"That's the thinking. The second should be one of the better agents, but we'll go easy on him anyway; with Algy you're well advised to not play a whole hand straight up... lets find a crowd."

* * *

><p>Dawn light was just starting to seep through the sky as a lone, bright yellow taxi cab chased its headlamps across the high <em>Puente de las Americas<em>. In the back of the saloon, Monty looked toward the still hidden Miraflores Locks, where the sun was starting to pick out the first ships of the day beginning their transit up the wide approach waterway. Leaving Panama City proper behind and continuing along the main road off the bridge, the taxi ran parallel to the canal entrance and Port of Balboa's wharves for a time, before turning off into overgrown hills.

This side of the canal's Pacific entrance remained less developed than the opposing shore, though not for want of trying. Another kilometre along the road, out of place in the rainforest, a newly built house flashed past the window, followed by another and it wasn't long before the vehicle was rolling through streets of new construction, much in various stages of assembly. Finally however, newly erected studs and walls gave way to the wide tarmac of an airfield off the right verge and the taxi trundled along slowly, searching for its destination.

Howard Air Force Base had been closed by the US Military in 1999, as part of the American pull-out from the region. With two international class airports already available to them nearby, the Panamanians were slowly converting the disused field into a commercial and residential estate; a well-heeled satellite for booming Panama City. Eventually the runways and hardstands would disappear, but for now a few small aircraft still dotted the tarmac, assumedly belonging to early adopters of the estate itself.

Also still standing were the massive aircraft hangers, and it was across the road from one of these that the cab pulled up.

"_Internacional Facultad de Ciencias Médicas_."

Monty paid the driver his flat-rate fare, plus a tip for the extra travel, whilst Jethro unloaded their belongings from the car's boot and back seat: two large hiking backpacks, plus a battered aluminium equipment case, small satchel and two twenty litre jerry cans of potable water. That would be enough for a start, and should they need to stay longer ceramic filters and iodine tablets were cheap insurance.

Placing his load down, the handler then extracted one last item from the rear seat and, as the taxi departed, secured the pith helmet on his head.

"I still can't believe someone was actually willing to _sell_ you that."

The spy raised his eyebrows, "_You're_ the one who came back with Jungle Greens... I just finished the look."

Apparently deciding not to validate that with an answer, his partner hefted a backpack, before picking up the equipment case and wrapping the canvas and leather, across-body satchel's strap around her other hand. Shrugging, Jethro set his own pack in place then, staggering slightly as he picked up the two full jerry cans, followed off in her wake toward the closest hanger.

At its entrance the girl waited for him to catch up, before putting down her load and, hands freed, opened the door to check inside.

"Just one person, and a plane."

Not wishing to advertise their presence any further to the outside world, the fratello lifted their gear again and disappeared into the building, shutting the door behind with a sharp click.

Starting across the interior space, Jethro's eyes began to adjust to the gloom. "Oh pull the other one..."

Monty turned her head to look at him, "About what?"

In the middle of the hanger floor, backlit by shafts of light streaming through broken skylights in the roof, rested an olive-drab high-wing monoplane with a deep, v-bottomed hull. Two radial engines were mounted close to its centreline while the entire thing was supported by a tail-dragger undercarriage, the main wheels of which seemingly retracted into either side of the fuselage. Now a figure was walking across the concrete to meet the fratello half-way.

"A _Goose_ Algy? Where on earth did you manage to dredge one of those up?"

Turning to continue the rest of the way with the Blackers, Algy sniffed, "Don't whinge Jethro, it's the best I could do on short notice _and_ keep this whole shemozzle under the bureaucratic radar."

Reaching the aircraft, the SIS chief climbed a step ladder placed next to its rear hatch before entering the fuselage. Standing below, his former colleague passed up items to be stowed whilst Monty looked on. As the last jerry can was lifted, her handler followed it up the ladder with his current partner close behind.

Stepping into the Goose proper, the first thing which caught her attention was that the cabin seats had been stripped out. In the place of those forward, four large 44 gallon drums were strapped to the fuselage walls and bulkhead directly behind the cockpit.

Algy followed her gaze. "I know they are not ideal, but these were only way we could give you the range; her tanks have been brimmed and even now it's only enough for a one-way flight. Q sends his regards by the way."

Walking forward he put a hand on one of the drums, "On the upside, the Wasp Juniors are old enough that they'll run on regular 87 octane automotive petrol in a pinch, there's more oil stored in the nose should you run low as well."

Reaching through the tight hatch into the cockpit, he produced a short, wood-stocked, bolt-action rifle from behind the co-pilot's seat. "I also managed to find this, hopefully no-one will notice its having gone missing."

With that he passed it to Jethro who, after giving it a cursory glance handed the gun on to his cyborg. Making a small display of taking the weight, Monty then checked it was empty, before pointing it a safe direction and cycling the bolt a few times to check its function.

"Not the lightest bit of kit ever is it?"

Algy gave her a smile as he took the rifle and replaced it from whence it came, "Spend some time with a full size Lee and the Jungle Carbine feels like a featherweight."

"There's a hundred-ish rounds of .303 for it in the nose, and you will also want these," he dug in a pocket to retrieve four little bits of bent metal which, cottoning on to Jethro's earlier action, he handed over to Monty. "Those were all I could find, but a piece of advice from The Rifles: load them so the rims are one in front of the other, makes it easier to chamber the next cartridge."

Dropping the stripper clips into a pocket on her belted bush jacket, the girl nodded her affirmation.

"And with that, I shall bid you adieu," the SIS man fixed his friend with a stern look. "Be a chap and doat least _attempt_ to return the plane in one piece, it'd make my life a lot simpler. The flight manual's in a side pocket also, _read it_."

Then, without pausing for an answer, he was out the plane's rear hatch and gone.

Standing in silence the Blackers waited as Algy's footsteps receded across the concrete. Eventually Monty's sharp ears picked up the sound of a car engine starting and accelerating away.

"He's gone."

"Right," Jethro lifted the equipment case and headed for the cockpit. "I'll get the rest of this stowed, preflight the plane and figure out how we're getting to Colombia. While I'm doing that, go over the whole thing, stem to stern... look for anything which may be used to track us."

Rummaging through her handler's pack, the girl retrieved a shaving mirror, then headed for the Goose's rear. In the hanger proper, more light was starting to stream in, but the plane's interior remained dingy at best. With her phone now fully charged but turned off to conserve power, the cyborg instead had to rely on her sharp vision to get the job done. Opening the hatch to a small compartment at the tail end of the cabin, Monty began her search. This particular aircraft had apparently been conscripted to government service from civilian life, and the cramped space contained basic toilet facilities with tie-down straps opposite, though with nothing to hold they required little time for inspection.

Finished she exited into the passenger cabin, closing the hatch behind her. By now Jethro had their meagre equipment secured along each side of the fuselage, though her handler himself was nowhere to be seen, probably outside doing his preflight. Glancing out a window to confirm that was the case, she travelled down the left side of the aircraft, peeling the rudimentary quilted canvas sound deadening away to check behind it. Past the 44 gallon drums of fuel and ancient radio still for some reason bolted to the back of the cockpit bulkhead, which she made a mental note to pull the front off of later.

Stepping into the cockpit proper, the girl gave the pilot's side a thorough once over, before checking up behind the instrument panel and slipping through the central access beneath it into the amphibian's nose.

The compartment was cramped at best, though popping the forward hatch helped a little, the extra admitted light revealing a vacuum cylinder, toolkit and folding anchor with rope to be all in order. On the other side of the hull, true to his word, Algy had left two, 4 gallon flimsies of oil and a small olive-drab metal case, which was found to contain loose .303 rounds for the Lee Enfield carbine. Stopping to retrieve a flat bladed screwdriver from the toolkit, Monty continued her search, this time in reverse down the co-pilot's side of the aircraft.

Again finding nothing she clambered out the rear hatch. On the dirty concrete hanger floor, Jethro was standing under one of the engines with a glass tube in one hand, studying its contents. Leaving him to it, the cyborg turned her attention to the plane's hull, looking for signs it may have been opened up. As she drew level with her handler he poured a little of the liquid from the tube onto his hand, sniffed at it, then threw the rest of the fuel away.

Inside the wheel wells turned up nothing and she clambered up onto the top of the wing to get a better look inside the engine cowlings. Just as she was about to move onto the starboard enclosure, Jethro poked his head above the metal. "We're going to need to get a wiggle on; I want to be airborne before that commercial park starts to fill up."

The second cowling proved to be empty of anything suspicious as well, and the girl slid to the ground, trading places with her partner so he could check oil levels. By the time he was back inside the aircraft she had the front off one of the boxes of radio equipment and, ferreting around in the mess of wires and glass valves it contained, found what she was looking for.

"Now this, doesn't look like it came from the Sixties."

Extracting the small package of electronics she passed it back for her handler to inspect.

"What makes you say that?"

"Simple answer? It looks different. They've done a pretty good job of blending it in, but you can tell whoever built it was in a hurry. For starters everything else inside this case..." she tapped the radio box, "...has valves on it. What you're holding doesn't."

"You probably couldn't build a GPS system with tubes down to a useable size anyway."

"I'm going to get the rest of this radio gear apart," Monty brandished her screwdriver, then pointed it at the gizmo in her partner's hands. "Question is, what do we do about _that?_"

Jethro turned the thing over in his hands, "For the time being we hang onto it. I'm about to go figure out our route south... how're you for conditioning medication?"

"Alright, for now... I seem to be able to go two or three days between doses, so I should be good for another week or so."

"In that case, we might take a bit of a detour to drop our little electronic mate here off somewhere."

* * *

><p>The peaceful stillness of businesses just starting to wake up was rudely broken by the cough and splutter of a radial engine attempting to turn over. Inside the disused hanger, thick white smoke gave sunbeams greater definition in the air, occasionally lit by a flash of orange flame as unburnt fuel mixed with hot exhaust gases. Eventually the Wasp Junior got enough pistons firing in sequence to work itself into a pulsating, offbeat idle. Another starter motor whined and the engine was joined by its doppelganger on the other side of the plane, twin bladed propeller stuttering around until those cylinders too caught.<p>

Giving the Wasps a few minutes to warm, Jethro reached up to the roof-mounted throttles and pushed the props out of their coarse setting, before edging the ancient amphibian out onto the tarmac lest he and his partner asphyxiate under clouds of exhaust and unburnt fuel. Taxiing further onto the airfield, the handler pulled up just short of the runway proper as Monty entered the cockpit, shutting its door and settled into the co-pilot's seat.

Pulling on her headset, her handler's voice came tinny through the speakers, "Hanger?"

"Closed up the way we found it."

"Right, keep an eye on the oil pressure gauges." Reaching forward he tapped the appropriate dials, "If they go past about one-ten, let me know."

If the sound of starting hadn't snapped any of the business park's early risers out of the last dregs of drowsiness, the roar of two radials being run up to maximum rpm and held there would have. As the Goose slowly started to edge forward on its brakes, the throttles were pulled back and the aeroplane idled out onto the runway, turning so that the low morning sun cast its long shadow across the asphalt. A heartbeat later the engines were given full power and it trundled off down the strip, gathering speed until finally the main wheels left solid ground and it thundered out above overgrown hills.

Inside, now reasonably certain they weren't about to fall out of the sky unexpectedly, Monty rose from her chair and slipped past her handler to crank the undercarriage up, while he concentrated on keeping their vintage transport aloft. As the wheels folded away, Jethro throttled back and put his plane into a long, lazy bank, facing its prow toward the rising sun. Checking the centre-mounted compass heading against that he had scribbled into a cheap notebook, the spy rolled back level as his girl retook her seat.

Replacing her headset, she turned to him, "I didn't get a chance to ask before; where are we headed?"

By way of explanation, her partner reached down into one of the cockpit's storage pockets and passed over a large-scale air-chart of Central, and parts of South, America. On it were drawn circles and a line running from Panama to...

"...Venezuela?"

Jethro nodded, "There's a couple of small inland lakes we should be able to put down on and leave our tracker on the shoreline. With a little bit of luck Algy will mistake us for chasing drug runners."

"You think that story will stick?" the girl sounded dubious.

"No, not indefinitely... but it may help throw him off the scent for a bit."

Now Monty studied the map again. "Assuming your circles are what I think they are, these lakes are very close to the edge of our range."

"On the Goose's internal fuel… I've marked a couple of airfields we can tank off at, but was weighing whether to do that or just fly straight through and use what's in those drums."

His partner was silent for a moment.

"All things considered," she started slowly, thinking aloud, "it might not be such a bad idea to put in a showing somewhere between Panama and Venezuela... leave a little bit of a trail."

"Question is would Algy believe the stops were legitimate, considering we asked for the extra fuel load?"

Silence again, then, "Well you know him better than I, but as you said: eventually he's going to figure out we've gone somewhere else anyway. In that case we may as well tank on the way to the lake, then do the next trip in one hop and give him a larger area to search."

"Sounds feasible." Reaching cruising altitude, Jethro levelled off and started fiddling with the trim, "In which case, pick one of those airfields and get me a new heading. No great rush, these old crocs aren't exactly speedy."

Ten minutes later, on Monty's instruction, the handler altered course a few degrees north, taking their plane across the narrow isthmus which represented Panama's geographical claim to terra firma and out over the Caribbean Sea. It was only a brief sojourn over water however and they soon made landfall again, roughly following the Colombian coastline northeast at a comfortable 5000', whilst below the colours of earth shifted from lush greenery to parched, dead dirt.

On a dry peninsula they found their destination, which amounted to little more than a coal terminal and workers' camp, serviced by a small, single strip airfield. Calling entry into the circuit, the fratello received no reply... which was just fine; remote operations like this saw little traffic and tended to attract those wishing to remain under the radar. None of the camp's population would likely raise a finger to help someone arriving in their wake with a pocket full of questions.

Despite being devoid of other aircraft, the field was able to brim the Goose's tanks again, in exchange for a hefty wad of US dollars, and send it and its occupants on their way. Looking at their dwindling supply of cash, Monty's expression was sour. "We can't afford to go paying those rates too many times."

Unfortunately the aliases the Blackers had been carrying on leaving Cyprus were not the most complete in their arsenal, and as such only retained enough cash in their accounts to keep them open and buy the occasional odds and ends. The result was that the fratello had expended a not insubstantial portion of that on equipping themselves and finding somewhere to sleep in Panama City. Now money was again in short supply.

Crossing the border from Colombia into Venezuela, the little amphibian started to climb, working its twin radials hard in order to clear the northern dregs of the Andes. Below, the terrain was rocky and sheer, with a multitude of small lakes, scraggly trees and tall mountains stretching skywards as if in an attempt to grab at the fragile bird passing by and haul it from the air. Threading his plane past higher peaks, Jethro glanced out the side window to see their shadow scudding along another towering cliff face, then dropping away as the rock wall ended into water far below. At least there were plenty of places to land in a pinch. Of course at this altitude, getting off afterwards may be more problematic.

Rubbing at her upper arm again, Monty ducked under the instrument panel, retrieving the box of .303 ammunition as they started to descend from the mountains onto Venezuela's central low lands. Opening the container, she fished one of the stripper clips from a pocket and started to feed rounds into it, careful to seat each cartridge so the rims wouldn't foul and they instead curved together neatly. One clip successfully loaded she placed it in her satchel, now hanging from a hook on the rear bulkhead, before producing another and repeating the process.

By the time she had finally filled the carbine's ten round box magazine, there was water under the plane again, and Jethro put it into a wide circle to survey the lake below. It was an idyllic scene: clear, azure waves lapped at overgrown edges, broken here and there by the occasional small village fronted with boats bobbing on wind-blown ripples. Stowing the Enfield, the cyborg retook her seat and, as her handler made a low pass over his selected landing spot, turned her attention to the lower window, using her sharp vision to check for debris under the sparkling surface flashing by beneath.

"Looks clear to me."

Tracing another circuit at the controls, her partner brought the little amphibian in much slower this time, alighting on the lake with a smooth splash of spray, growing into a substantial bow wave as the slowing aircraft settled deeper into the water. On the shore, spectators from the village they had set down in front of gathered, and now a few ran down onto its rickety wooden jetty to move fishing craft away so the Goose could taxi up. Pushing the idling props to coarse pitch, Jethro shut down the engine on that side to avoid anyone running through its arc and placed the raised walkway between his plane's hull and outer pontoon.

His partner by now had half her body poking up through the nose hatch so she could throw a mooring line to the villagers. Leaving the outer engine idling, Jethro ducked back to the rear door to do the same, taking the opportunity to pass out a couple of rolls of sweets from their supplies to children gathered on the dock. It was a small gesture, but made him feel a little safer being tied up here.

Returning to the cockpit in order to finish shutting the Goose down, he found Monty emerging from under the instrument console. "So what do you think?"

The girl stopped halfway out, "I think we could probably attach our transponder to the bottom of that jetty without anyone being much the wiser. I'd prefer to do that in darkness though."

Her handler glanced at his watch, "Keeping realistic, I think we may be sleeping here anyway. By the time we finish in the village, find somewhere to land and refuel again, then make our merry way south, it'll be night at the weapons drop; and to be honest, I'm not entirely enamoured with the idea of trying to find a river in the dark."

His partner nodded, "Ok, we'll bunk here then get an early start tomorrow. Spending a bit more time in the village may not be such a bad idea anyway, it'd be a bit odd for us to arrive and then immediately leave again empty handed. I might grab some photos or something."

* * *

><p>Daybreak found the Blackers cruising south at a steady 166knots. A short hop from the village had landed them at a small rural airfield, seemingly populated by crop dusters. On the upside the little ag-planes were powered by similar engines to the Goose and, with tanks brimmed, it lifted off again for the Amazon Basin.<p>

In the co-pilot's seat, Monty was scribbling away madly at a notebook, large scale map in her lap and a hand-held GPS balanced precariously on one knee. Noting down what it read, she quickly turned the device off again, then leant forward to adjust the aeroplane's compass.

"That heading should bring us in about a hundred clicks down-river of the airfield. We can follow it up at low level from there."

Hours ticked slowly by.

"We're going to be pushing our fuel load like this," stated Jethro, tapping a gauge in the vague hope it might somehow change its reading.

Beside her handler, his girl nodded, "It's not ideal I'll admit... there."

"Where?"

"There," she pointed out the front of the plane, "on the horizon."

"All I can see are trees."

Rapidly producing the GPS again, the cyborg turned it on and waited impatiently to for it to acquire enough satellite fixes to find its position. "That's the river we want, follow it north-west once we reach it."

Throttling back, her partner put the Goose into a gentle descent, eventually levelling off at about 500'. As the river resolved itself directly ahead and below he threw the vintage aircraft into a steep bank, circling around to join its course.

"There're settlements down there."

Following his gaze, Monty glanced out her window, "Coffee plantations."

"In the middle of the jungle?"

"Best place if you want to do something different," she paused, taking in more of the view. "Looks like they're sun growing though. That explains being close to the river, they'd likely need it to feed up fertilizers and pesticides..."

"Makes sense, the river's the easiest way to get around out here."

"...guess they're chasing quantity rather than the premium organics."

Levelling off, Jethro spared a second to throw her a cheeky grin, "You want to stop and pick some up?"

"For sun grown? Not really."

Roaring along at a few hundred feet, the handler kept roughly above the river as it wound its way through the Amazon jungle, snaking back and forward across his plane's path.

Glancing down at her GPS, his girl spoke into her mic, "You might want to look to putting down shortly, we're starting to get a tad close to remain airborne."

Nodding his affirmation, the spy found a straighter stretch of water and, remaining low, circled out to line up an approach. Unfortunately he wasn't likely to be allowed the luxury of a reconnaissance pass and pretty landing this time, instead scudding in just over the treetops on full flap. As soon as water appeared under the plane he pulled the throttles to idle and dumped his bird into the slow moving current, its hull sinking rapidly as it washed off speed.

"I'm going to take us a couple more clicks up stream like this, save on the walk."

Halfway out of her seat, Monty glanced at him, massaging her arm as she did so, "Sure, just not _too _close. I'll be in the passenger compartment if you need me."

Settling into a fast taxi, the Goose made easy headway against the lazily meandering river, while Jethro searched the bank. A few kilometres up he found what he was looking for and turned the amphibian toward the shoreline.

"Monty!"

The girl's head appeared through the cockpit door, "You called Skipper?"

"Go hang off the bow rope could you luv?"

Checking her GPS again and scribbling down its reading on the map, his girl turned the little device off before ducking under the instrument panel. Quickly she appeared out of the forward hatch, rope in hand and lashed it to the cleat fixed just ahead of her. Here, trees hung low over the water, dense foliage almost touching the river's surface. Sure he had enough momentum to reach his goal, Jethro reached up, pushed the propellers into coarse and killed the engines as the plane's bow nosed in under the greenery.

On its prow, Monty felt the canopy brush over her then, as the aircraft drifted to a halt, she was out of the hull and clambering onto a low-hanging branch. Scrambling along it until she reached dry ground she dropped off and, wrapping the rope around a tree for leverage, began to haul the Goose the rest of the way to shore. As its nose bumped against the river bank, the cyborg backed her line off, then ran it around the tree again, making fast with a couple of half hitches.

Standing back the girl took a moment to admire her handiwork, popping another button on her shirt as she did so and shaking the fabric. The air here under the jungle canopy was dead and stifling, carrying the dank smell of rotting leaf litter and rustle of multi-legged life going about its business. She quashed a wry chuckle; it was a good thing they hadn't needed to put up with Kara on this job, _there_ was a cyborg far better suited to the luxuries of civilisation.

Monty had to admit though, even if only to herself, that sometimes she didn't blame her pampered counterpart in the slightest.

Dropping back through the nose hatch, the girl found her partner in the passenger cabin, scratching his head over a hand-cranked fuel pump, assumedly designed to fit into the top of a 44 gallon drum. Slipping past him she rummaged through her pack.

"How'd you go?"

"We're tied up, though it might be an idea to run another line off'f the stern, otherwise we're going to risk this thing swinging around in the current and wiping out that starboard pontoon." Apparently finding what she was after, the cyborg reached further into her bag, withdrawing a large machete, which had been stashed down one side. "For now though, I'm going to look to covering up the bits of aeroplane not already hidden."

Putting the fuel pump down, Jethro eyed her, "In that case we'll run that line now. Then I'll check oil levels; refuelling can wait till you're free to lend a hand, but I want to be able to scram at short notice before we head for the airstrip… just in case.

* * *

><p>If it had been hot and uncomfortable when the fratello first came ashore, Monty decided it was at least ten fold worse now that they were on the move. Swinging her machete to hack another bit of nature from the road, the girl hefted her carbine back onto a shoulder and glanced around to check how her handler was faring. Loaded down by one of their bags, Jethro served as pack mule whilst his partner ran point, with her much lighter cargo of rifle, satchel, water... and the all important blade she was wielding. From where they'd left the Goose it should have been less than ten kilometres to the militants' airfield, but thick undergrowth made for heavy going and at the moment she was dubious they would make it before sundown.<p>

Despite the physical discomfort, the cyborg was feeling much more human, having used another precious conditioning pill prior to starting the trek. That left her with three, not a good number, but still better than suffering a severe withdrawal in the middle of the Amazonian jungle. Discomfort she could put up with, but a breakdown right now would be catastrophic.

They slogged on, Jethro occasionally pausing to check the small, metal compass located in one pocket and move his cyborg back on track if need be. As night started to fall, the girl called another stop, then took the GPS out of her satchel to get a more accurate fix on their position. Content, she turned it off again to save the battery and limit their chances of detection.

"Should be only another click or so to the airfield," she said quietly.

Sheathing the machete, she unshipped her carbine, cycled its bolt to chamber the first round and flicked on the safety. Holding the gun low, the girl then started to creep forward, much slower than she had moved before, doing her best to remain silent, eyes and ears intent on the surrounding area.

Eventually the foliage ahead began to thin, and Monty signalled for her handler to halt. Laying down she wiggled forward on the ground until she was presented a view of the airfield in its entirety. The fratello had made its way to the eastern end of the strip, furthest from where their original Candid had been unloaded. Now that area, with its accompanying buildings, was robbed of detail the twilight and the humid air. To the cyborg's left was the cutting down to the river, and on the side of that closest to her, assumedly accommodation huts. To the right, the opposite side of the runway was defined by dense, solid rainforest.

Retrieving the vintage SLR from her satchel, the girl scanned the closer buildings, its 100mm lens playing a poor substitute for her usual high-powered binoculars, still laying on the back seat of a Ford in Cyprus. Under the eaves of one, a small group of men in green uniforms lazed, poking at a pot on their low fire, doing as little as possible in the energy sapping evening heat, heavy rifles leaned up against the hut wall. Aside from them however there were few signs of life. As she watched, two more people ambled up. Tapping their colleagues on the shoulder, the new arrivals sat down whilst those tagged retrieved their own Kalashnikovs to begin a slow circuit of the perimeter. Turning her attention to the further end of the clearing, Monty found her view still ruined by haze. From here she could make out shapes moving around by a set of larger constructions, but beyond that fine detail remained elusive.

Either way she could make a couple of assumptions, the first being that, going by the small number of buildings offered for accommodation, there wasn't a huge amount of manpower here. That would make sense for the rebels, at least probably a rebel group of some description, as at the end of the day this was a facility which would need to be somewhat expendable.

The other assumption which could be deemed reasonable was that the business portion was indeed at the other end of the runway.

Backing out of her position she crawled back to where her partner waited. "The place doesn't look particularly heavily manned, but I think we want to be up on the other extremity; looks like accommodation closest to us and warehousing or similar away from it."

"What do you think our chances of making it to the other end undetected are?"

Monty was silent for a second, "Well I'm no commando, but with the buildings I saw I doubt they would have enough people here for much more than close patrolling. If we made a wide loop around we'd probably stand a reasonable chance."

She paused, "The question is do we want to go now, or wait till its fully dark and I take a nose around the accommodation first?"

Now it was Jethro's turn to think, but eventually he shook his head. "No, by what you're saying this place is likely just a trans-shipment point for... whoever these people are. If that's the case there likely won't be much to find until the next Candid turns up. We'll see what rolls down its ramp and make our decision then on whether to go in or not then..."

"...Of course if it takes too long we may just need to cut things short and catch the first flight out." Standing up he adjusted the pack back onto his shoulders, "For now, lets find somewhere to bunker down to the west."

* * *

><p>Rain, of course there was going to be rain. There was that much moisture in the air it could only have been a matter of time before the stuff started to fall out.<p>

_Pity it didn't seem to be doing much toward cooling things down._

Adjusting her position slightly to avoid another rivulet coursing past, Monty listened to thick droplets as they pounded against the tarp strung inches above her head. Laying just beyond the carbine slung up underneath the canvas to keep it at least semi-dry, Jethro reached forward to swap out the canteen which he'd placed to catch some of the runoff. Two days they'd been here now, camped just off the jungle-edge of the runway under a pile of canvas and foliage, waiting for the sound of engines to spur them into action, and a chance to replenish their water supply was a welcome one.

Of course she could just be imagining things, but the downpour seemed to be letting up. The girl glanced at her watch, mid-morning; without it, under these grey skies, it was difficult garner what hour it might be.

The watch was something else she needed to look out for. A gift from her handler during their workup period, the black faced Heuer Camaro had been presented when it became evident their tight schedule wouldn't allow for him to chaperone her from one appointment to another, and she would require some ability to manage her own time. Normally, going into a harsher environment, the vintage chronograph would have been swapped for a hardier Rolex Submariner, but this excursion hadn't precisely been planned.

The rain was definitely easing up, torrential torrents of earlier receding to merely a heavy pelting. Now, above the sound of droplets smashing themselves into oblivion was just perceptible the whine of turbines high above.

Monty rubbed absentmindedly at her wound; it was starting to ache again; that was concerning. Despite their reputations, not even the Russians would be mad enough to attempt a landing in this visibility and she hoped that, if those really were turbines in the wind and not just a figment of wishful thinking, the weather would clear enough for the transport to put down. Of course, if it didn't then fairly soon she and her handler were going to need to start looking for alternative ways to leave the country, or risk trying to get additional supplies of her conditioning drug sent the other direction.

Slowly the rain abated, eventually settling into the sort of light drizzle which in some European countries would have passed for a sunny day, and the droning overhead grew louder. Opening her satchel, the girl withdrew her camera, checked the film counter was set at one, and started to crawl forward through the undergrowth. Thirty-six shots, best make them count. Behind, Jethro unshipped the Jungle Carbine from its perch and ensured there was a round in the chamber, readying himself to take on the roll of cavalry if required.

Arriving at the edge of the cleared runway Monty lay still, keeping her camera lowered as she waited.

She didn't need to wait long.

After holding for the better part of an hour, the Illyushin's captain didn't intend on wasting any more time or precious jet fuel airborne, and dumped his plane unceremoniously on the ground in a roar of engines and waft of kerosene. Taxiing back to the runway's western threshold, the big aircraft swung around again ready for takeoff, turbines spooling down as the jungle's natural background sounds started to slowly re-emerge.

Stowing her camera's lens cap in a pocket, Monty focused the split-image viewfinder on her subject as its rear ramp started to descend. No sign of a crew yet, which seemed odd as Sergei had been the first off her own aircraft to meet with the rebels on the ground. Now a figure did start to make its way down the ramp, and she rapidly fired off a shot, thumb working the advance lever to ready another frame for the immediately familiar face.

_Should have seen that coming._

Standing at the bottom of the ramp, hands on his hips, stood a man she had first laid eyes upon in the Istanbul Polo Club, pushing queens and rooks around a chequered board, and he didn't look happy. Grabbing a passing soldier, the Hermes rep said something she couldn't catch, but his corralled servant sprang to an approximation of attention then dashed off toward the airstrip's accommodation area.

Staying out of the road, the chess player looked on as an all terrain forklift, assumedly that which had made such a racket above the Blackers on their own arrival, breezed past into the Candid's hold, reappearing shortly with a tarp-covered pallet. Another pallet was removed before the soldier returned, his superior in tow, the latter sporting a large combat pistol on his hip and stereotype-correct revolutionary beard.

The forklift didn't make a third trip, but as pleasantries were exchanged two, four wheel drive Hilux utilities rolled off the aeroplane and onto Colombian soil, each wearing plain white paint and a rollbar solidly mounted into its tray. Snapping another shot of the receding vehicles, Monty turned her attention back to the two men. Something was getting them riled up and the exchange's volume increased enough that her sharp ears could catch snippets of English conversation, assumedly their only shared language.

As best she could glean, the results of her fight in Turkey had been discovered, no surprises there, but whoever controlled the operation wanted to call it off, or at least have movements suspended until what had actually happened could be ascertained. That the cyborg found slightly more vexing, a response apparently shared with the rebel leader, if for different reasons.

"The operation is compromised..."

She strained her hearing but was unable to make out what the rest of the sentence was. Fortunately the argument's South American component helped fill it in.

"Sounds to me like you need more reliable people, my end is fine! This _your_ fuck up, sort it out on _your_ end!"

The answer was again indecipherable.

"Then give one more delivery! As you say, abandoning here after next flight, so what does it matter!"

Another back and forth was lost to the breeze, but finally...

"One week from today, and it had better fucking show up!"

With that the rebel commander stormed off, leaving his European counterpart standing in the mud.

Today's main event apparently over, the girl continued to observe as the transport, still watched carefully by rebel guards, took on its load of timber. Cautiously, another face appeared at the top of the ramp, probably one of the crew, beckoning for the Hermes man to return aboard. Monty captured another image then tugged at the advance lever as he strode inside the fuselage, feeling it come up short... end of the roll.

Soon the Illyushin was thundering down the strip and climbing into clearing, moisture soaked skies. The rain had stopped now, leaving behind only fetid humidity, made worse by the slowly emerging sun. Recapping her camera the cyborg started to crawl back toward her handler.

Jethro remained silent until she had retaken her position under the tarp and adjusted the foliage covering it. "I take it we missed that flight."

She nodded, "I doubt we would have been able to get aboard anyway, too many people around. If we wish to catch a plane from here we'll need a distraction."

Expanding on that, Monty quickly and quietly filled her partner in on what she had observed, leaving him thoughtful.

"And the plot thickens."

"That it does. Either way, we're going to need to come up with some plan by which to be on that last aeroplane, or start looking for alternative routes out of country."

"Or find some means to get you more conditioning shipped over..."

"...which is risky," finished the cyborg.

"Which it is; and I doubt the SWA would even approve it, so scratch that idea," Jethro paused. "Lets have a think on the other options. Tonight I say we head back to the plane, we can likely do more from there than from here."

It was a hot and uncomfortable few hours which slowly trickled by until nightfall, Monty helping to pass the time by awkwardly loading a fresh roll of film into her camera. Unfortunately the setting sun didn't take with it the discomfort, and dusk brought forth inevitable mosquitoes, the incessant, grating whine of which pierced through nature's more peaceful sounds. However, with the cloud cover now dispersed, a bombers' moon allowed the less optically gifted half of the fratello to help cut down their hide and make his return journey to the Goose with only minimal falling over.

Finding the little amphibian still securely moored, Monty handed off the carbine and withdrew her PPK. Checking it had a round chambered she opened the plane's nose hatch and dropped inside. Her arm was really starting to hurt now and, in the darkness, she shook another of the conditioning pills from its tube and swallowed it dry. Quickly she gave the interior a once over, making herself comfortable in its emptiness before allowing her handler access.

Helping move their gear back into the passenger compartment he turned to his girl. "Question: that coffee plantation we flew over; you thought they were probably not farming organics?"

Monty turned from where she was re-stocking the hiking pack and eyed him curiously, "I doubt it was; coffee plants naturally grow in the shade. Sun growing is faster and more commercially viable, but only with the use of fertilisers and pesticides. Why?"

"Because I think I may have our distraction... and just maybe a way to put a damper on this operation for a bit into the bargain."

"Should I be dubious?"

"You can have the remainder in the morning, and make up your mind then," walking to the stern of the Goose he opened up the rear hatches to allow some airflow. "For now, get some sleep; we'll take off as soon as there's light enough to do so."

* * *

><p>"What you ask is not so simple as just paying for goods and us handing them over."<p>

Standing in nearly dry clothes, Monty eyed the coffee plantation's manager; a Colombian national but educated in America, warily. A few hours sleep had found dawn still warm and muggy, enough that a short dip in the river to push the Goose clear of its cover had seemed a welcoming prospect. Now however she felt her handler, whom had spent the same time sat astride an engine, pulling it through by hand to make sure the lower cylinders hadn't gone into hydrolock, may have received the better bargain.

The manager was talking again, "Anything we sell you we need to replace, or risk losing part of the crop... and that is both difficult and expensive to do out here, particularly on short notice. Fuel is less difficult, but I still doubt your three hundred dollars will cover it."

"A moment then?"

"Take your time."

Monty picked up the ratty bills from the table; all that remained of their alias's funds, and followed her handler outside.

"What do you think?"

"I think we need what we came for."

Jethro nodded his agreement, "If we can organise a boat or something out of it I was considering offering him the plane."

The cyborg contemplated that silently, looking dubious. "That would essentially lock us into this course of action."

"I think we're basically locking ourselves in anyway. That's the last of our cash and it won't buy us fuel enough to get back to anything resembling civilisation after one more trip up river."

"Algy won't be happy."

"_Algy_ should be used to it by now."

More silence.

Finally, slowly, Monty nodded, "Ok, lets offer the plane."

Ducking back into the plantation office, Jethro took a seat again, resting one foot on the opposing knee, "We're willing to offer you the aeroplane as payment, though we will also want river transport and extra fuel for that as part of the deal."

"And what makes you think I would want your aeroplane?"

"You just said yourself: getting supplies here is problematic. That plane is fitted to carry cargo, can land on the river and runs on reasonably cheap avgas..."

"...even if you have no intention of using it, a Goose will fetch upward of half a million dollars on the vintage and warbird market," chipped in his cyborg.

There was a long silence as the Colombian considered the offer, purposely sweating his clients. The fratello returned his gaze coolly, they were too far out on a limb already, and at this stage, anything else said would just make them seem more desperate.

Finally the manager gave a wry smile, "I don't know what you two want this _vaina_ for, but you must _really_ want it. I will take your aircraft; you can have one of the longtails and whatever else you need, within reason of course."

"Then if you don't mind, we'll get moving," reaching out, Jethro grabbed an alarm clock off the manager's desk. "For starters I'll have this."

Stepping back into the open, the handler turned to his partner, "Start clearing our gear out of the plane, top off the water jerries... I'll pick us a boat and figure out how much fuel we need. Move quick, I want to be out of here in the next two hours."

"On it."

"And make sure to grab the tool box."

* * *

><p>"I still think we got fleeced."<p>

"What was that!"

"I said I still think we got fleeced!" Monty yelled over the sound of the motor.

"There's an old saying! 'Beggars can't be choosers!'"

"That doesn't mean the beggar in question has to _like_ it!"

Jethro contemplated the girl in front of him, wedged between two 25kg bags of fertilizer, wrapped in plastic to keep them dry. She was rubbing at her arm again and he did a quick mental check; it would be coming up on about three days since her last conditioning dose, which seemed to be about the limit of how far she could ably stretch things. The duration was certainly outside of what the Agency doctors mandated, but for now, if she felt she could make it three days then he wasn't going to argue the point.

It had taken the better part of that period to travel this far upriver, chugging along at a steady five-ish knots. The fratello's long, skinny boat, loaded as it was with equipment, extra fuel and a hundred kilos of fertilizer, was weighed down such that even the sluggish current made itself felt, resisting forward progress.

Now Monty was looking at her GPS, "It should only be another click to where we took the plane ashore!"

"We might push a mile or so past that then!" her handler yelled back. "I think we've agreed the rebels probably aren't running a wide patrol!"

The distance passed slowly under their hull, until finally Jethro turned for land. Scrambling over the boat's cargo, his girl grabbed its painter, leaping onto the river bank as soon as it was near enough and securing their vessel under concealing foliage.

Quickly the Blackers set about moving ashore, and as he started to string their tarp up, Jethro turned to his partner, "I hope Caesare has kept the apartment for us, could be awkward if we get back and there's someone else there."

The cyborg's mind was however occupied by other concerns. Her arm was really starting to hurt again, the last transport was due in four or so days, and she had two doses of conditioning left. If she allowed for time in transit...

"Monty, luv? You here?"

"Huh? What?"

Her handler shot her a concerned look, "I said I hope we still have the apartment back in Cyprus… when was the last time you dosed?"

"Just before we left for the plantation, I'll take another tonight."

Well that was one option gone. Changing the subject she continued, "I don't see why Caesare shouldn't hold the apartment, we've been good for money so far, he could at least allow us a week's leeway."

"You truly believe that?"

"No, but I'm hoping that between the steady income and your painting he'll somehow labour under the impression he owes us something."

"Hmm, true… if we're lucky, Constandina may well bring pressure to bear as well."

They worked in silence again, Jethro continuing to make camp while his girl unloaded two more bags of fertilizer from the boat, along with their two Jerries of water and another of diesel. Hauling the last up the earth river bank, Monty found herself being handed an open foil pouch and fork by her handler.

"I assume you don't want these heated?"

"Not really."

Not bothering to read the label, she dug in; this camping store rubbish all tended to all taste the same anyway. During one of her brief sojourns at the SWA main compound, some of the girls with military-background handlers had whinged about ration pack food, and this was probably little better. What she found more intriguing was that civilian "adventurers" seemed plenty willing to pay sixteen Euro a pop for what the army had trouble convincing its people to eat for free. The human race as a whole had something seriously wrong with it.

"What do you think of the Hermes chap making a showing?"

Dropping her fork into the now empty packet, Monty took a moment to change mental gears. "Honestly? I think it can swing two ways. On one hand it sort of supports the idea of the Padania as organisers and mediators; on the other it possibly shows a more direct involvement than we were originally theorising."

"To be fair, he seems to have turned up only after a serious foul-up on the Turkish end, and of course if we'd not off'd Ebanovich they may not have needed to get so hands on at all." Now the cyborg paused again, "It's been awhile since Nassau, if the Separatists had wanted to instate someone in a similar role that's plenty of time to find a reasonably expendable replacement."

"So you think he's just as likely to be hung out to dry if everything goes pear shaped?"

"I think he's a front man, talking to Omurtak as well as this crowd here, and is working under a company far enough removed for its parents to be quickly disavowed; take that as you will."

"One to chase once we're back on the Continent, for now we bide our time."

"Said as if we have an option."

* * *

><p>Using one hand to keep the top of the bin liner inside her pack open, Monty awkwardly started to fill it with fertilizer from a 25kg bag wedged under her other arm. Holding her breath as fine dust erupted from the opening, she watched it alight on the sweat clinging to her exposed skin.<p>

Heat, check. Humidity, check. Arm, stabbing pain. Splitting headache, check.

Swimming vision… that one was new. She was going to be inestimably glad to be rid of this God-forsaken jungle; four days in the one spot was plenty long enough.

Slowly, Monique Blacker keeled over.

* * *

><p>Hard coolness at her back...<p>

As Monty started to float back toward consciousness, other sensations began to wend their way into her perception: the soft lap of water behind her skull, human breath and a heartbeat she recognised as that of her handler somewhere nearby... afternoon sun filtering down through the canopy above.

She winced... and the splitting headache, that was still there as well; as was the stabbing pain in her upper arm.

_Welcome back to reality._

Struggling briefly to sit up, the girl immediately flopped back to the bottom of what she now recognised as the fratello's river boat. From near her feet, Jethro turned from where he was busy pulling spark plugs out of the engine.

"You alright?"

Lifting one leaden arm, his cyborg massaged at her eyes before allowing the limb to collapse back down, staring again at the leaves above her.

"_Ish."_

Leaving what he was doing, her partner made his way forward. Wrapping one arm around her skinny shoulders he helped her into a sitting position, then dropped to the boards behind, allowing her to lay back against his chest.

Uncapping a water canteen he held it out. "I'm going to hazard a guess and say that was a _conditioning reaction_."

Taking a small sip of the water, Monty let the bottle rest in her lap. "Fair guess."

"How long?"

"Four days; since the first night we got here."

Now Jethro looked more concerned, "I thought you were only pushing it to three."

The girl took another sip of water and leant back against him, contemplating how best to explain herself. Finally, "I was, but on that first night I did the math and realised that, one way or the other, I'd be coming up short before we made Cyprus again… figured it would be better to push things early and have the breakdown now, rather than staying with a three day cycle and risk a reaction in the air or on the airfield."

Her partner opened his mouth to break out a retort, then stopped: in all reality he couldn't fault the logic. It was cold, almost disturbingly detached; but as little as he would care to admit it, it made _sense_.

"And you didn't think to let me know this was the new plan because?" he settled for. "We keep enough secrets from everyone else; the last thing we need to do is be keeping them from each other."

"Didn't seem worth bothering you with."

"Aside from scaring the sweet Protestant Christ out of me you mean? Next time you decide to go do something silly, I would take it as a kindness if you kept me in the loop."

No reply.

"And now," he continued, "I think it might be wise for you to take that last dose, where is it?"

Monty patted her pocket, "Safely stowed, but I'm going to hold off a few more hours..."

"Christ you just _went down_."

"I did, and now the ground's right here so I'm not falling any further. You're a capable chap, I'm sure you can finish bomb building all on your lonesome; I'm going to keep laying down a touch longer."

Another pause.

"_Fine_, have it your way."

With a defeated sigh, Jethro extracted himself from behind his girl before lowering her gently again to the smooth-worn deck. Crawling back to the stern of the boat he retrieved the spark plug he had just removed, and screwed it into a short piece of fuel tubing, making sure the electrode was well covered by the powder inside. Component complete he dropped it into the side pocket of the backpack beside him and picked up another piece of fuel line. Securing that between his knees, the handler then grasped one of the Jungle Carbine's .303 cartridges. Taking a firm grip on it with pliers and a set of vise-grips from the Goose's old tool kit, he extracted the round from its casing and poured the propellant into the plastic tubing. Disposing of the empty brass and bullet, he picked up another round and started the process again.

From where she lay on the deck, Monty started, "How are we on the bomb front anyway?"

"Well you spilt a bag of fertiliser when you passed out..."

The girl grimaced at hearing that.

"...but we should still have sufficient to do the backpack and one of the Jerries."

"Will those be enough?"

"They'll have to be."

Laying back on the woodwork the girl watched the patterns above her shift and dance as tall rainforest trees waved back and forward in the miniscule high-level breeze, creating a shifting mosaic of sparkling light. It was pretty.

She gave a wry chuckle at that; seemed it took a total physical breakdown to get her to stop and look at the scenery. She had a splitting headache, her arm hurt like all buggery and if she moved she was probably going to throw up, but there were some blessings still to be counted, not least of which was having a partner willing to let her carry through with her own decisions.

Slowly, gradually, the patterns of light moved more permanently across the scene as the sun sunk toward its western horizon. Just as it brushed against the tops of the trees up river, she popped her last conditioning pill.

_That was it; committed... no backing out now._

As the drug started to course through her body she was able to sit upright, checking her carbine over and making sure Jethro hadn't raided her satchel for more powder. Fortunately the stripper clips there seemed un-tampered with and, as the last rays of light evaporated from the sky, she stood up and dusted herself off.

Standing in the boat, Monty made a smooth jump ashore then scrambled up the river bank to where her handler was just starting to break camp.

"Ah, welcome back to the world."

"Ready to get rolling?"

Jethro turned from where he was cutting the tarp down, "_I_ am, how about _you_."

"I'll be good for now."

Bending down next to one of the hiking packs, Monty checked to make sure her handler's rudimentary detonator was in the side pocket and that the top was secure. Sitting in front of it she wiggled the straps over her shoulders then, with a mighty heave, got to her feet, staggering slightly as the extra weight threw her balance off.

By now Jethro had the tarp down. Using it to wrap up all which would be left behind, he dumped the lot into the boat.

"Leave it tied up or let her drift?"

"I'd say sink it," replied his partner, "but shooting a hole in the bottom is going to be loud, so leave it here and let nature take its course. If we let it drift it'll just cause a ruckus downstream."

Hefting the carbine again, the girl waited for her partner to check his compass and direct her on a heading. Machete clearing a path through the dense undergrowth she set off, handler collecting her satchel and the sole remaining jerry can to follow in her wake.

The night time rainforest made for heavy going, but the journey to the airfield was shorter than the path they'd beaten previously from the Goose, and that first trip had served as practice negotiating the darkened foliage. Approaching the strip's down-river extremity, Jethro broke off without a word, heading deeper into the jungle whilst Monty curved toward the water. Just out of sight of the accommodation huts, she settled into the undergrowth to wait. If the last two flights to land here were indicative of typical operations, then the last plane should be arriving sometime in the early morning. Daylight wasn't exactly going to make things perfect, but that was why they had a distraction in the first place.

* * *

><p>So much for <em>morning<em>... or _daylight_ even.

The sun had come and gone and, as the last dregs of dusk disappeared from the sky, Monty remained hidden away in the same spot she had arrived at the previous night. This was getting concerning, what if, despite the protests of the rebels, their Turkish partners had indeed decided to hold the aeroplanes? It was a feasible scenario and certainly wouldn't be the first time one party had left their business partners high and dry in order pursue their own agenda. The girl tried to think back to instances in which she had done the same; perhaps this was karma swinging around like the proverbial shark to bite her.

_Maybe it really would be a good thing she had left taking her last dose of conditioning so late._

Even so, for the rebels no plane represented a lost payload, for the Blackers; Jethro would be lucky to avoid serious repercussions back in Italy and she... well frankly it wasn't likely to be her problem by virtue of being dead or a vegetable.

Somewhere toward the other end of the strip a man was shouting in, probably Spanish, it certainly sounded like Spanish, unfortunately another of the languages the girl was yet to master. Whatever he was saying, he wasn't happy about it... maybe this delivery _was_ actually missing; that wasn't a nice thought. Abandoning her partner in the middle of the Amazon certainly wasn't on the cards, and slowly wasting away as her brain lost control of her body would be a terrible way to go as well, no style at all.

Another hour passed.

Something multi-legged crawled up Monty's arm and she brushed it off without looking, honestly it was probably best she didn't see half of what she shared the damp leaf litter with. Whatever it was voiced its displeasure at her by squeaking loudly, the sound briefly overpowering the jungle's regular background patter.

As the localised noise died away another reached the cyborg's sharp ears, a distant whistling, slowly growing closer and eventually resolving itself into the relieving roar of four Soviet-designed turbines. That was her cue, shrugging the backpack off, the young agent knelt up beside it, withdrawing her partner's cobbled together detonator from the side pocket. Opening the top she found a stick and used it to push the bit of plastic tube down into the fertiliser/diesel compound contained therein, making sure the two electrical leads coming off the spark plug didn't get sunk along with it. Then, draping the leads outside the pack so as not to contact the two other wires coming up from the bottom of the bag she sealed the top down and hoisted it back onto her shoulders.

Shouldering her carbine, Monty started to creep toward where the airfield's accommodation huts were located under their jungle canopy. As she reached the edge of where the undergrowth had been cleared, the roar of engines reached a crescendo and the cyborg dropped back into the bushes as powerful landing lights sent shadows running in circles. Then they were past, accompanied by the receding thunder of thrust reversers.

Crouching back up so her head was just clear of the foliage, Monty surveyed the rough cabins. As she and her handler had hoped they seemed mostly deserted, the field's personnel being preoccupied with preparing to receive their payload.

Creeping around one of the shelters which backed onto the jungle, she peered past its corner. More basic but similarly sized buildings were scattered seemingly at random under the trees, but nothing which looked like common facilities. That wasn't overly surprising: it was doubtful this place had an organised mess if the men cooking for themselves had been anything to go by. What assumedly served as an administration centre was at the far end of the group, near the cutting to the river. She didn't really feel like trying for that, not to mention the more heavily trafficked area would up the chances of her payload being discovered, and frankly any building would do. However, in order to cause maximum mayhem it would be nice to pick a slightly more central target.

Working her way forward, Monty found a more suitable candidate and crouched down in the shadows where a short set of steps led up into it. The pressures of local climate dictated that constructions be perched off the ground, allowing airflow underneath, and that was going to be the cyborg's boon.

Unshipping the backpack again, she flipped it open and quickly hooked the detonator into the small alarm clock which Jethro had lifted from the coffee plantation manager's desk. Two more leads ran from that clock to what had once been their boat's battery, now stowed in the pack's base. Giving the clock a few extra winds for good measure, the girl set its alarm for fifteen minutes. From the fratello's two previous observations that should be about right for their purposes: though admittedly those same observations had also said to expect a morning delivery.

_Too late for second guessing now._

Closing the bag's top, Monty slid it underneath the hut and hit a pusher on her watch, starting its chrono function. Then picking up her Lee again, made for the river. Jethro should still be in position near the airfield's far end; she just needed to be there as well.

Toward the water, dense jungle foliage had been left in place to help conceal the rebels from passing vessels and the girl skirted along it, ducking into the undergrowth as she reached the edge of the cleared vehicle access. Stopping just short of the earth ramp, she surveyed what lay ahead. The transport barge was again present, moored up against a row of timber piles driven roughly into the muddy bottom, each with a couple of tyres dropped over the top for good measure. Between the two central ones a rudimentary metal ramp had been installed, allowing the 6x6 truck to position itself and pull logs onto its back. Now it was doing exactly that, rear wheels on the ramps and front tyres on the dirt slope.

The truck's headlights lit the access up to the airfield like daylight, ruling out that option for crossing and powerful, generator powered lamps illuminated the barge's deck, leaving just a thin patch of darkness between it and the shoreline.

_At least the diesel gensets did a decent job of obliterating any sound she may make._

Monty crept to the edge of the river, she couldn't see anyone above the barge's side and a quick check up the slope saw her clear there as well. Taking a breath, the girl slipped silently off the bank.

Cool water rushed up her body, halting just below her chin. Careful to keep her carbine and watch dry, she slid over directly next to the barge's hull. Edging along its steel plates she reached the first pile, and contemplated the small gap between it and the moored vessel where the tyres separated the two. It might just be large enough for her to squeeze through, but if the barge moved...

...no, getting crushed like that would be a _stupid_ way to go.

Glancing up, Monty made sure no-one was above and edged around the timber. Two more piles were circumvented without incident, but as she started to pass under the vehicle ramp, a heavy footfall caused her to freeze. Over her head, someone spoke in low tones and, between the metal planks she caught the flare of a match. More voices in Spanish, followed by laughter and the little sliver of wood cut a fiery trail to the river where it hissed out.

As it floated past the cyborg glanced at her watch, half her time was gone already, and she waited tensely, index finger laid alongside the carbine's trigger guard. Of course firing would give away her presence, probably before time, and that would make things… complicated.

Finally the glowing butt of a cigarette followed the match into the water and boots clanked their way back onto the barge's deck. Checking above herself, Monty moved off again; after the delay she was going to need to pick up the pace.

Further upstream a number of small craft were moored to the shore, a couple of local longtails similar to that which the Blackers had bought from the coffee growers, but also two fast looking, twin engine RHIBs. With no time to investigate however, the girl reached the barge's stern and hoisted herself onto the bank, disappearing into the undergrowth.

Moving quickly as she dared she skirted around what was assumedly the back of the storehouse taking cargoes offloaded here. There was no point in trying to actually meet up with her partner, they weren't familiar enough with this end of the airfield to set a rendezvous point, instead she would just need to be ready to move when he did. Monty glanced at her watch; which should be in about three minutes. At least the signal itself would be near-on impossible to miss.

Finally reaching the end of the airstrip, she took up a position which presented a decent view of both storehouse and the Candid's gaping rear doors. As with the other aeroplanes previously landed here, this one had two guards stationed at the bottom of its ramp. As she watched, the all-terrain forklift reversed down to the dirt from an empty hold, and trundled off toward the storage shed.

_Perfect timing._

On her wrist, the Heuer's red chronograph seconds hand swung back toward top-dead-centre.

_And in three, two, one..._

Nothing.

Monty tapped her watch, had she forgotten to...

Light and fire erupted from the other end of the airfield, followed half a second later by the concussive thud of an explosion and suddenly what had been a dull, routine operation for its personnel took on a whole new dimension.

There wasn't chaos per-se, but people ran. Anyone without something more pressing to deal with bolted for the attack, rifles ready followed just behind by those lugging fire extinguishers. Halfway toward its destination the tide of bodies crossed paths with the Illyushin aircrew, sprinting the opposite direction toward their plane and safety.

Obviously this wasn't just some rag-tag militia, there was actual discipline in their movements, but the show wasn't over yet. Out of the corner of her eye, Monty caught another shadowy figure dash from the undergrowth, a boxy item in hand, and disappear into the storehouse. In the darkened interior something flared and the figure re-emerged, hands now empty, and headed for the jungle once more. Crouching ready, the cyborg double checked she had a round in her carbine's chamber, then flicked the safety off.

The second explosion tore the side out of the warehouse, sending jagged splinters of timber flying in all directions and setting what hadn't been immediately scattered alight: _now _there was chaos. No-one ran toward this fire, instead attempting to put as much distance between themselves and it as possible, with good reason too as the first rounds of ammunition started to cook off.

The only two people apparently not running were the aircraft guards and as the figure from before headed for the Illyushin, Monty rose from her position, carbine levelled and squeezed the trigger. Pops and bangs from the burning building covered her shot, but the muzzle flared and the rubber-butted stock kicked back into her shoulder. By the ramp one of the guards dropped and she cycled the bolt quickly, lining up his companion.

AK hanging limply in his hands, the man's head swivelling back and forward between the figure running toward him and the girl in the undergrowth, unsure which to stop first. The cyborg's next shot went wide, but it was enough to make up the rebel's mind and he swung around, rifle raising to firing position.

Monty's follow up didn't miss.

Sprinting across open ground, Jethro saw the second guard drop. Passing the body he hared up the Illyushin's ramp, drawing his SIG on the way.

"Hold it right there!"

Part way up the cockpit ladder, the aircraft's crew stopped in their tracks and turned to stare at the new arrival.

"You speak English?"

Nods.

"Then keep your hands where I can see them and walk this way!"

The flight-suited men paused, and from behind Jethro came the sound of footsteps on metal, followed by an empty casing falling to the deck.

"I'd do what he says if I were you."

The soft female voice was lower, but no less commanding, and the crew started to move silently as directed. For his part, Jethro relaxed slightly as Monty pulled up beside him, Jungle Carbine levelled in the same direction as his P230.

The aircrew halted a good few paces in front of the fratello and one, assumedly the captain, took another half step forward. Unlike Sergei, he was a great Russian bear of a man, solid in the manner of those who used their muscles for work rather than show. "What you want with us?"

"I want you to give my partner here and myself a lift to Cyprus."

"And payment?"

At this, the Brit shrugged, lowering his gun slightly. "We've nothing to offer I'm afraid other than the warm feeling of helping your fellow man... and a continued ability to stand upright and breathe."

The Russian chuckled, and it was not a friendly sound, "Ha! Your threats do not bother me, or your guns: if you kill me, then who fly plane huh?"

Now it was Jethro's turn to smile, not his usual easy going grin, but a thin twitch of the lips and as devoid of humour as the laugh it answered.

"I don't know actually, but I've never flown one of these big transports before..." the pistol came up again "...always kind of wanted to _try_."

* * *

><p><em>It really was amazing how much more human a simple shower could make one feel.<em>

Monty gave a wry chuckle at the irony of that thought, massaging absent-mindedly at her upper arm. Now back on her regular conditioning regime, any discomfort from the bullet wound was banished, and her partner's superglue patch job replaced by a self-skinning plastic filler from the fratello's small first aid kit. While the pressurised foam compound didn't help her strength any, it bonded neatly with the synthetic muscle and sealed the wound against infection; "one size fits most" pigment giving it an appearance of scar tissue.

Attention returning to where her laptop rested open on the kitchen bench, the cyborg clicked on the icon to open its web browser, just as the first strains of "Come Fly with Me" started to float out of the Sofokleous's apartment bathroom. She shrugged; it was probably one of the less irksome songs in her handler's Sinatra repertoire, certainly one of the less embarrassing.

The Blackers were fortunate he had somewhere to sing at all. Caesare _had_ held the apartment for them, though with an extra late payment fee, but as Jethro had predicted, Constandina had also applied pressure; a fact she seemed unlikely to let go of in the near future. By whatever means though, on arrival back in Cyprus they found their accommodation exactly as it had been left, an absolute Godsend offering a chance to make themselves fit for normal society again.

Not to mention produce a decent coffee.

Monty took a sip of the mug next to her: time to prioritise. She had been out of contact with Rome for near-as-made-no-difference a month now, a style of behaviour which tended to vex their superiors. First order of business then was to check for urgent messages, next give her PPK a clean, and work her way down to less critical correspondence from there. Clicking onto one of the blogs used to leave markers by the fratello's controllers, she found what she was looking for almost immediately, time-stamped two days previous.

Locating the relevant data-dump area, the girl pulled Rome's file onto her computer and ran an eye over its decrypted text. Seemingly this was the last in a long line of unanswered communications stretching back almost to their trip into Northern Cyprus. Those she would need to go back through, but for now she had enough information to get the gist.

Flicking a quick response off to Ferro, Monty pushed back her chair and banged on the bathroom door. Without waiting for a reply she opened it a few inches and stuck her head around. At the sink Jethro paused, razor halfway to his shaving-creamed face to look at her, eyebrows raised.

"Mister Blacker, we're needed."

**To Be Continued...**


	7. CH07 Moonraker

**AND THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction by Alfisti, based on works by Yu Aida. Michele Pagani and Kara are fancharacters from that same universe on loan from the inestimable Kiskaloo._

* * *

><p><strong>CH07|Moonraker<strong>

"Pardon me."

With the deft grace of practice, Jethro squeezed between two heavily laden baggage trolleys to pluck a suitcase from the carousel as it idled past, tearing off its business class "priority" and destination tags for disposal as he did so. Threading back through the same gap, the handler extricated himself from the baggage claim crush to join his cyborg where she waited just beyond the scrum's edge, keeping a watchful eye on proceedings. While it would require a certain type of stupid to attack someone in an airport, it was a place in which a tail could be picked up all too easily, and she used the time to note the features of those with whom she shared the reclaim gallery.

_Of course, humanity had never been noted for its collective intelligence either._

Seeing her partner's approach, Monty picked up a canvas carry-on which had been laying at her feet and two coats, leaving the second, heavier bag for him to balance with. While the weight would not have bothered her, it also wouldn't do for the more petite of the pair to be carrying the heaviest bags; that sort of behaviour tended to clash with the public's view of how the universe was supposed to operate.

As Jethro collected the remaining duffle on the trot, the girl fell into step beside him, "Zurich wasn't _exactly_ where I intended to start back to Europe."

The elder Blacker shot her a wan smile. "When Rome says 'jump'."

"Hmm."

Throngs of bleary eyed travellers, focusing what little concentration they had left on finding their own belongings, paid the fratello little heed as it passed by in silence, accompanied only by the clicking of leather heels on hard terrazzo flooring. Avoiding the unfortunate individuals clustered at the depressingly grey-on-grey signed lost baggage counter, Jethro and Monty breezed quickly through Swiss customs' "nothing to declare" lane and paused in the public concourse to get their bearings. Swaying gently above their heads plentiful, if subdued, Christmas decorations obscured parts of the airport signage.

Fortunately where interior design failed, memory would triumph. It just needed a moment to do so.

"Remind me again why Rome didn't want the Audi?"

Monty, thumbing through her phone, gave a non-committal shrug. "We'll find out in a minute, P2."

"Well that's fairly broad stroking things."

Sidling up close to her partner as they made their way off through the crowd again, she held the web-page she had open up for inspection.

"Cryptic... must be important if our girl came out herself though."

"Either that or she needed to escape the madhouse for a bit," deadpanned the cyborg, locking her phone and slipping it back into a suit-jacket pocket.

In contrast to the airport interior's carefully curated dullness, the continental morning which greeted the Blackers as they stepped outside was bright and clear. Between the buildings an unblemished blue sky arched overhead, winter sun suspended above crystalline air, its low rays not quite penetrating to those stood in the void between terminal and parking blocks opposite. True to type it was also bitingly cold, and Monty offered up her handler's camel driving coat before shrugging on her own bone trench and buttoning it shut.

As they started across the upper-roadway pedestrian walk, the cyborg scanned the bulk of parking block P2, sweeping sharp eyes across it, seeking out some sort of clue behind vertical metals strakes which formed the steel edifice. Eventually she found it, a softer human form, apparently talking on a phone while it looked out across the airport buildings to the flight line. Remaining silent however, the girl accompanied her partner to the lot's lift, before slipping forward to select the top floor whilst Jethro held the door for a family, the parents of which nodded their thanks and moved to the other side of the car, towing an awkward assortment of wheeled cases and bags. Feeling someone's eye on her, Monty caught the teenage son's gaze and returned it coolly, cocking an eyebrow and causing him to look away. Beside her, her handler put down their single vulcanised cardboard suitcase, taking the opportunity to stretch his arm, before resting it loosely across the shoulders of the girl beside him.

Getting the hint, the boy didn't even glance back as the doors opened and he traipsed off obediently after his family. Two floors later, the Blackers made their own exit, Jethro pausing momentarily for his companion's cue as to which direction they should go.

"I take it you know something I don't?"

"Mmmhmm."

The upper level was only half full but, unlike the fine detailing of the carpark's exterior, was more Brutalist then intricate; all concrete, steel, low walls and cross-braces.

_A machine for parking perhaps..._

Now with a rough idea of where he was being pointed, the handler could make out the shape of a woman, her dark hair cut into a short, low maintenance style, leaning against a low, black outline.

"_That _looks like the sort of loaner your mate Pagani gives out."

His partner didn't say anything, instead noting the two sets of skis jutting up from the back of the Aston Martin, running parallel along its back until they cleared the roofline, as well as the French registration plates it now wore.

"Wherever we're off to I take it it'll be a tad chilly… chilli_er_"

"I'd call that a reasonable assumption."

As they approached the woman hoisted herself into a standing position and turned to face them.

"You're late."

"Blame air-traffic control for having us do circles over Interlaken."

"Well, you're here now."

Jethro studied the face of Ferro Milani, the SWA's communal Girl Friday. While Jean Croce enjoyed the arguably more heady role of directing the Agency's field teams, it was Ferro who kept the gears oiled in the background, cleaned up the mess and prevented all the wheels from suddenly falling off. If she had made the trip to Zurich herself then what she had slated for him and his partner was either very important or, as Monty had somewhat bitingly observed earlier; attempting to herd the organisation's collection of social misfits and adolescents around had finally driven her out of the country. Either way, she looked tired... so probably more likely the last minute dash rather than a chance to get away for a few days.

Keeping his tone on the light side of serious however, the handler replied, "We are, though if I'm honest this is _not_ one of your more spectacular pieces of timing."

If the SWA's support team manager was fazed by the comment she didn't show it. "Had you raised those concerns earlier we may have been able to accommodate something, however by the time I received your reply our ability to shuffle assignments was non-existent."

Ignoring the veiled rebuke, Monty made the rest of the translation in her head: _Meaning it was easier to pull us in rather than try to find someone else similarly qualified to do… whatever it is we're doing._

That particular thought she kept to herself however, instead inclining her head toward what was presumably the Aston Martin of one Michele Pagani. "I assume you were not loaned that just for the sake of a pleasant drive."

"Unfortunately not," the other woman grimaced, half sliding a neatly folded A4 boarding pass out of her own belted coat's pocket, "if it was I would have gone two ways flying _Budget Air _instead."

Pushing the scrap of paper away again, Ferro continued, "No, for your sins it's yours. Apparently someone put forward that your normal transport lacked flash."

Monty cocked an eyebrow, her expression dubious. "Flash for what?"

"One of Italy's leading telecommunications lights is in Grindelwald right now, you two have a business meeting with him."

"Is _he_ aware we do?" put in her handler.

"Not yet, but I'm sure you can manage arrangements," the agent wasn't finished yet. "It's a bit of a drive but there's some reading material in the glovebox if you're interested."

The cyborg nodded her understanding now: the SWA had a problem it didn't know a lot about, and needed someone to dig deeper before making a decision on what to do next. That went part way to explaining why the Blackers had been pulled in rather than this being handed off to one of the domestic teams.

"I could always use something else to read," replied the girl. "Though, I might impinge upon you to look after something for _me_."

"What sort of 'something'?"

Digging in a coat pocket, Monty extracted three film canisters. "Find someone who can process those? It's difficult to track down a decent lab on the road."

Ferro accepted the spent rolls. "I know someone good."

"Thank you, I'll have them back next we're in the office. Ticket?"

Retrieving it from her coat, the SWA's field manager held a rectangle of cardboard out and Monty took it, subtly passing a small USB drive to the other woman under the slip. Considering the Blacker's last report had been from Turkey, it was probably going to make interesting perusal for someone.

"It's paid for."

Handing the pass off to her partner, Monty nodded again at the Aston. "Europe's a bit of a shock after warmer climes," she stated, carefully leaving the fratello's previous few destinations unspoken for, "we're not exactly packed for the slopes."

For the first time in the meeting, Ferro quirked what may have been the edge of a smile. "I thought that would be the case; which is why I had Priscilla pick up your spare key and help select a few things you might be lacking."

_Oh, joy._

"Did she leave room for any of our own gear?" put in Jethro, before his partner could think up a retort, "…and did she remember to pack anything for _me_."

* * *

><p>Reports and negatives in hand, Ferro bid the Blackers adieu, trailing a small cabin bag behind her toward the lifts, every inch the day-tripping business type; which probably wasn't actually too far from the truth.<p>

Keeping an eye on the woman until she was safely to the lifts, Monty flipped open her laptop to see what goodies had been left in the car's glovebox whilst Jethro set the engine warming, then turned to rearranging the coupe's boot in the hope of squeezing their solitary suitcase in. Fortunately Michele had seen fit to send the grand touring oriented DB9 along for the fratello's usage, rather than one of the even less practical supercars from his personal stable. Even so, the space wasn't exactly cavernous and someone had already done their level best to fill it as was. However, he was damned if he was going to travel looking like an amateur with a suitcase on the back seat, and he was certain his partner wouldn't take well to that particular faux-pas, no matter how well she tried to hide it.

As it turned out, there was room enough for the fratello's existing luggage, just. Making it usable however remained no easy task, and the two soft cabin bags eventually found their way to the back seat, which was allowable under the Blacker laws of how to travel. Still, a good five minutes elapsed before the boot-lid finally shut with a satisfying thunk, forward lip just clearing the skis which ran down the rear window. Circling to the driver's door, the handler stripped off his coat, thrusting it behind his seat before settling into the Aston's rapidly warming interior, shutting the chill out behind swathes of metal, wood, glass and leather. In the passenger side, Monty set her computer up on the red hide of the dashboard, twisting around briefly to arrange the garment more neatly across the rear buckets.

Adjusting his seat backwards, Jethro glanced at his girl, "We'd best get rolling before this ticket expires."

Nodding her head slightly in agreement, Monty retrieved her computer again while Jethro selected drive, released the handbrake and pulled smoothly out of their parking spot, accompanied by the grumble of a still waking V12.

Zurich itself consisted mostly of low-rise buildings, four or five storeys high, crammed shoulder to shoulder down toward and around the northern edges of the lake which bore the same name. Intent on avoiding the city centre, the Blacker fratello instead turned right onto the ring motorway, forgoing views across the water for a clean run out of town, skirting the heart's northern edge then down its western border.

As they turned onto the next motorway south toward Zug and Lucerne, Jethro stole another glance at his partner. "So?"

Looking up from her computer, she cocked an eyebrow. "So what?"

"So what do we know so far?"

"For starters it looks like the tech crowd have been busy, Ferro left us the latest cryptography package; so I'll need your phone later to update. Other than that, I've only managed to glean the basics so far." Lowering the lid of her laptop, the girl settled more comfortably back into the embrace of her chair. "Our mark's name is Baldo de Moratti, owner and chairman of _Moratti Technologia Communicazione_, which does everything from fixed communications infrastructure, to remote area setups and internal comms systems. To date he's suspected of having FRF sympathies, but no-one's been able to nail him with much more than association, which so far isn't an actual crime…"

"So what's suddenly caused him to ping on everyone's radar enough to warrant pulling us in? As you say, association isn't in itself a crime; he could just be a rich man keeping the company of other rich men."

"What has the Agency and Public Safety in a flap is that MTC is set to put up its first communications satellite, and it will be geosynchronous over, among other things, Italy."

"Again, not technically a crime, particularly for a company doing remote area work; however I can see where some of the concern is coming from. Question is though: what makes _this _bird special…"

Monty flipped the lid of her laptop back open again, "Still working on that one."

"…and why just the SWA and Public safety? Not anyone else?"

"Still working on that one too," she glanced over at her handler. "You think this might be someone casting bait out for us in particular?"

"Could be, or for Section Two at least," Jethro reached over to give his girl's thigh a reassuring squeeze. "If that's the case though, it wouldn't be the first time we've knowingly walked into a trap."

Withdrawing the hand again, he threw her a lopsided grin, "Of course, it could be that all the different agencies _do_ know about it, and are just playing their cards close."

"Hmm."

Outside the clustered buildings of Zurich started to melt away from the motorway edges, leaving in their place coldly beautiful countryside. Unfortunately Jethro didn't have much time to enjoy the scenery as, with his partner still engrossed in her computer, it fell to him to keep an eye on his own mirrors for tails. It had been a calculated risk not spending some time in Zurich's heart making sure the air was clear, but Ferro's overall tone had suggested that they may want to make the trip fairly quickly. Fortunately the long stretches of dual carriageway gave him plenty of opportunity to commit to memory those vehicles trailing along in his wake.

Slowing slightly off the speed limit, the handler pulled into the slow lane and let traffic start to gradually slide past. One of the problems with Pagani's taste in transport was that it was entirely too easy for other people to pick out on the road. He was going to need to play a few games in order to ferret out anyone following in their slipstream.

Just outside Zug the motorway veered south-west, skirting the lake upon the shores of which the city was built, its surface serving as a watery barrier between Switzerland's northern flat lands and the mountains for which it was internationally famed, snowy caps blazing white under the winter sky. Ahead the peaks swung around across the horizon, marking the northern edge of the Bernese Oberland, high and craggy, marching rank and file back over the horizon like the walls protecting some hidden fantasy kingdom. Half an hour later, the fratello's route veered directly south, passing around the edge of the picturesque lakeside city of Lucerne and plunging through the gates between those same towering rock behemoths.

Catching the rapid change of scenery from the corner of her eye, Monty glanced up from her laptop again, then across at her partner. "Rough idea of how much longer?"

Doing some quick adding up in his head, Jethro replied, "Maybe an hour to Interlaken from here, then another forty minutes or so to Grindelwald; give or take. We turn off the motorway at Interlaken, so it really depends on what sort of condition the road's in from there."

"Well then, here's something else to mull over the rest of the way." Flicking over to an open word document, the girl skimmed her notes. "To answer your previous question; what made this particular satellite special was an anonymous tip sent to the _Carabinieri_. Spook work isn't really their thing so they sent it to AISI, who decided it was corporate and forwarded it to the _Guardia di Finanza_ from whence it bounced around the counter-intelligence community until finally landing on the desk of Public Safety."

"That doesn't make me feel particularly comfortable," put in her handler. "Has anyone taken a stab at figuring out whom our anonymous benefactor was?"

"No, and by the time it got to the Agency it had been in circulation long enough for the trail to go cold."

"Hmm."

Monty continued, "Either way, the Agency originally slated it to go to us. However, when we didn't reply, they dispatched Ricci and his cyborg to take a look at where the satellite was being prepared." Now she grimaced slightly. "Unfortunately they left deciding we were out of range a little late and Sandro only managed to get a metaphorical glimpse before it was packed off to French Guiana in an Illyushin."

"Guiana Spaceport…"

"…where it's currently being bolted to the top of an Ariane 5," finished the girl.

"What sort of timeframe does that give us?"

"No idea… yet," she turned back to the laptop. "The official line is that the Moratti bird is a communications satellite, but from all accounts it's a little large to be carrying just a comms package."

"Piggybacking?"

"I imagine that's the thinking, though part of me has to wonder if the Padania can really rope together the sort of resources to pull that."

Jethro looked thoughtful for a second, "They do seem to have been operating on a grander scale of late… though it doesn't necessarily have to be the FRF either, _anyone_ could be using it to smokescreen their own intelligence gear."

"But why use an Italian company to spy on Italian interests? Lets be blunt here; most of the countries with the money to create a bird at least have access to means by which to throw the things up there quietly."

The handler shrugged, "Could be anything: deniability, extra layer of misdirection… it's got to be easier to explain an Italian flagged sat in a position to look at its home turf than some other country's. For that matter, it could be a way to fob it off on Italian interests should the game be sprung by someone _else_ residing under its sight... Anything on Moratti himself?"

Monty didn't reply, instead turning back to the screen and, taking the cue, Jethro returned his attention forward. The road followed the valley floor in a gentle curve westward, eventually disappearing into a tunnel. From that it emerged as a simple two lanes and fired itself into another, longer cut under the narrow gap between the Alps foothills and the _Brienzersee_, one of the two large lakes between which Interlaken resided.

Leaving the wide valley behind, the Blackers turned south off the motorway, the Aston's black snout nosing its way into the mountains proper, engine's thunder bouncing off close rock walls. Starting to climb, the road's bends tightened, swinging back and forward as it picked its route between spurs and Jethro knocked the car into manual, at the same time offering up a silent thanks to whoever had seen fit to equip it with winter tyres. Soon snow piled up on either side of the gritted tarmac, it's white blanket broken only by the thin squiggle of a railway line keeping drivers here company, sharing what little flat earth remained with the occasional farmhouse which flashed by.

Taking a turnoff left, the fratello travelled back eastward, toward even taller peaks, their vehicle a black speck against the vast white landscape. As a gentle sweeping bend lined them up on the approach to Grindelwald, the valley opened out slightly, giving what lay ahead its full wide-screen impact.

To the north and south of the town lay high, gently rolling slopes, feeding skiers upon them down four thousand vertical feet into the welcoming embrace of bars and hotels below. That was impressive to look at, however those feeble runs paled into insignificance against the impossibly tall edifices of _Wetterhorn, Schreckhorn_ and _Eiger_, their mighty stone walls thrusting directly up from the tiny valley below. Beyond them, unrelenting mountains climbed further to _Jungfrau_, which presided over the area bearing her name from a fourteen thousand foot throne.

At the base of those, the town of Grindelwald was built at a much more human scale, clothed in festive dress for the yuletide season. Pulling up in a small siding, the fratello climbed out of the Aston, immediately hunting for heavy coats and accessories to ward off the alpine chill.

Sealing her other merino lined glove with its button-clasp, Monty joined her partner at a public information board, her breath forming puffs in the air. "Its peak season, finding somewhere to stay could be troublesome."

Feeling his girl pull up beside him, Jethro reached over, put an arm around her and glanced down. "It's also almost bang on Christmas, which may help a little at the lower end. I take it no-one was kind enough to book us anything?"

"Oddly not."

"Maybe a stable then…"

That earned him a flat look and the handler gave a half shrug, "Well, Grindelwald's a tourist town, there has to be _something_ vacant."

Leaving silence hang comfortably in the air, both partners turned back to the board in front of them. There really were a plethora of choices on the menu, though given what the SWA had decided to lump them with for transport, a higher-priced option would be preferable to round out the look. However, as Jethro had hinted at, with Christmas bearing down upon them those same higher priced options were also likely to be the busiest, inhabited by clientele with the means by which to celebrate the holiday away from home.

Seemingly finding something of interest, Monty retrieved her phone from a pocket and started to key in a number. Moving behind so he could look over her shoulder at what she was doing, Jethro bent down so his head was level with hers and let his arms wrap around her body, hands clasping atop her belly.

Taking the cue, the girl turned her head slightly so she could speak softly to him. "The Belvedere; _Moratti Technologia Communicazione _held its last annual conference there… plus, according to Moratti's file, he's something of a hedonist, and The Belvedere claims to have a nice lounge with a bar and exceptional views of _Eiger_."

"All that from the file?"

"Most of it from the file, the rest came straight off the company website," the girl paused momentarily to key the rest of the hotel's number into her phone. "It seems as reasonable a place to start as any, I was going to see if they had a room free."

Straightening up, Jethro moved his arms up so they crossed Monty's collarbone, gently rocking her back and forth while she spoke softly on her mobile. He had known board chairmen whom, outside the office, couldn't be picked from the rest of the proletariat, going by what he'd just heard Moratti probably wasn't one of them. With that in mind, it was feasible the man would be self-centred enough to organise his company dos somewhere he also personally liked…

…_Probably._

Lifting the iPhone from her ear, the girl covered its pickup and glanced up at her handler, cocking a questioning eyebrow. "There is an Eiger view junior suite available for the next two nights, the other free options are on the back of the place."

He gave her a quick confirming nod and she raised the phone again. Though the time limit would make things difficult, those sorts of issues could be… handled.

* * *

><p>"A hedonist huh?"<p>

Placing a hand lightly in the small of his partner's back, Jethro guided her into the front lounge of the Belvedere Hotel. The establishment itself had turned out to be toward the top of the town, nestled at the base of Grindelwald's northerly ski-runs; a fact many patrons seemed to be taking advantage of going by the clutter of skis leaned haphazardly against a wall outside its foyer. For those not of the slopes, the lounge's full length, floor to ceiling glass exploited the views its board advert had boasted so proudly of to show them what they were missing on the mountains opposite. Failing that, it at least allowed them to take in the scenery from comfort, preferably with a finely mixed, albeit expensive, cocktail. Outside, the setting sun poured its golden way down the valley's open end, picking up rocks and crags, throwing the textures of _Eiger's_ north face into stark relief far across the open carpark and snow covered ground, nature still putting her best foot forward to tempt those stick-in-the-muds out to clean mountain air.

Despite the spectacular display, the Blackers' interest lay indoors and, turning away from the view, Monty ran her eyes over the lounge's inhabitants. At this time of the day, all bar the exceedingly devoted had returned from the slopes. As such, the warmly lit, high-ceilinged room was reasonably busy, its occupants afforded a modicum of privacy by waist height dividers as they relaxed into low, vaguely art deco, armchairs. From somewhere near the bar wafted the light tinkling of a piano to accompany the clink of glasses and quiet hum of conversation and, glancing around to find the source, she spied something much more interesting.

Nudging her handler, she tilted her head toward the bar at which, between the fixed stools, stood a man in his late forties or early fifties, crop of dark hair complemented by a fastidiously trimmed goatee and moustache encircling his mouth: Baldo de Moratti.

Taking in the man's attire, Jethro steered his girl toward their mark. While the fratello had taken the opportunity to change into something more casual and befitting of alpine lounging, the chairman's outfit was somewhat, if not overtly sporting, then certainly cut for the outdoors. Pulling up at the counter, the handler signalled the second member of the bar staff.

"A Vesper Martini, stirred, on Tanq10 please… and a Negroni, no ice, on the same."

"Vodka?"

"42 Below."

As the barman produced two tall metal tumblers and started scooping ice into them, the spy caught a flicker of movement in the corner of his vision and was just in time to see Moratti glance away. Taking a rough guess at what had drawn the man's attention, Jethro took a step back and gently moved his girl between him and the bar, from where she had been standing on his far side, wrapping arms around her shoulders in the process. Then he let his own eyes look across the man beside them but, unlike the Italian, followed that action with a question.

"Been out on the slopes?"

Their fellow would-be barfly seemed momentarily caught off guard, but recovered quickly and turned to his addressor, eyes starting lower, then focusing on the Englishman's face; who filed the action away as confirmation of his earlier suspicions.

"Yes, actually, I have. I find the Belvedere well placed to start and end the day at."

"How are they?" Jethro let an easy grin cross his face. "The slopes I mean."

Smile and the world smiles back as went the old saying, and Moratti returned the expression. "Very, very good right now, better since many have gone home to family. You've skied Grindelwald before?"

"Not Grindelwald. Normally I head for St Moritz or even across the border into Italy…" he gave the girl in front of him a quick squeeze "… but this year we felt like something a bit… quieter?"

"Well, here is certainly quieter than St Moritz; and Grindelwald tends to lack the bottom feeders waiting for a little of the glamour wipe off on them," there was contempt in the tone, well disguised as a rueful joke, but contempt all the same. "Personally I've been holidaying here since I was a boy, so it is a little like coming home."

"I didn't think your accent was local."

Moratti let out a laugh at that, "No, Italian…" He proffered a hand. "…Baldo de Moratti, of _Moratti Technologia Communicazione."_

Jethro shook it, "Jacob Metcalf and this is…"

"Lara, Lara Rigg," put in Monty, extending her own hand.

"…my niece."

Transferring his grip, Baldo forwent shaking with the girl, instead clasping her hand and placing a light kiss on the back of it for which she favoured him with a cool, heavy lidded smile.

"Lovely."

At that moment the barman finished pouring Jethro's drink and placed both glasses on the countertop. Releasing his partner, the spy quietly handed over his room tag so the cocktails could be charged then picked up the tall stemmed Martini glass, before handing its shorter, old fashioned tumbler counterpart to her. Receiving his key back he turned again to their present companion.

"Well all things considered, you sound like the sort of chap whose brains I want to pick about what to do in the morning, care to join us for a drink?"

This time the eyes' flicker was almost imperceptible. "I do indeed think I will."

Taking a sip of his martini to bring its level down for safe transport, the spy guided his girl toward one of the segregated groups of chairs which lookout out toward _Eiger_. Taking in his partner's short blue dress over skivvy top, as well as his own shawl collared knit cardigan however, he stopped short of moving outside onto the terrace. Still, even through the glass, the vista remained spectacular.

As her handler sunk into one of the outward facing armchairs, Monty briefly considered settling onto its arm, before thinking better of it and taking her own seat beside him, deciding the former would probably have been pushing the point just a little too hard right now. Foregoing the view, Moratti took one of the chairs opposite and the girl crossed one legging encased thigh enticingly over the other, two inch heel tapping idly against the white leather of her second tall gogo boot.

"You said that you start and end the day here, I take it then that you're not staying at the hotel?" put in Jethro, restarting the conversation.

Baldo shook his head. "No, I used to, but now I have a chalet just outside town, however it is difficult to get to on skis."

"So what… driving then?"

"Indeed."

Now a slightly cheeky grin spread across the handler's face and he pointed with his glass at the carpark. "The Bentley's not yours is it?"

The Italian twisted slightly in his seat to see what was being pointed at, but shook his head and motioned further down the lot. "No, the FF."

"How do you find it?"

"Very good."

Jethro gestured out the window again to where his loaner resided. "I only ask because the Aston's getting a mite long in the tooth, so I was considering an upgrade…" he picked up his girl's hand which was laying close by, starting to absentmindedly stroke the back of it with his thumb, "…and if we intend to keep doing trips like this, then all-wheel-drive may be something worth considering."

As the conversation delved into the finer points of motoring, Monty let the words wash past her ears, trying to filter out something which may be useful from the sea of shop talk. If anything it at least went some way to justifying the Agency mandated car swap as her handler gradually created more common ground he could use to help hook their target.

"It's a terribly large car though."

That was Jethro.

"It is, but at least you don't need to resort to sticking skis to the rear window in order to fit everything in," countered Moratti with a grin, motioning again out the window to the DB9, the fratello's skis still secured to its rear in the dimly lit carpark.

"Touché," the handler took another sip of his drink before changing tack. "Though speaking of which, I'd still like to at some point at least vindicate the decision to lug the things up here. Any recommendations as to where might be worth starting tomorrow?"

Their mark contemplated him over the top of his own glass for a second or two.

"It really depends on what skill level you are both at," he started thoughtfully. "If you're new to the sport there's a couple of blue runs on both sides of the valley, either down from Schiltand Bort on the north side or past Alpigen on the south…"

"We're both fairly advanced skiers," put in Monty, taking a sip of her own drink, "if that's what you're worried about."

"Well in that case there's a decent black run down from First all the way back to Grindelwald itself, and plenty of intermediates for more relaxing times…"

"Sounds hopeful."

Now however, Moratti was leaning back in his chair, again contemplating his two companions, seemingly thinking.

"Of course," he started slowly, "if you were looking for something off-piste, there is _another_ route down."

Monty cocked a questioning eyebrow.

"I found it years ago, when I tired of the established routes, I call it 'Moonraker'."

The eyebrow remained raised. "I didn't think that movie had a ski scene."

"What can I say, space has always fascinated me."

The Italian didn't continue further, instead letting his earlier implied question hang in the air and the cyborg shared a glance with her handler. While it was possible the invitation had sinister intent, the opportunity being presented was far too good to pass up, call it an occupational hazard. Their target however took the glance to mean something else.

"If you're uncertain then…"

"No, it's not that," assured Jethro. "Tomorrow morning?"

"9am outside the restaurant at First."

"Done."

Moratti looked at his watch, lifting the large black faced Panerai up for inspection, then reached into a pocket to withdraw a rectangle of cardboard. "If that is the case then, I had best get going. It has been a pleasure meeting you both; my card, should you need to contact me beforehand."

* * *

><p>"You can put that away now."<p>

Sitting at her computer, Monty looked across to where her handler had just climbed into bed and raised her eyebrows. "Hmm?"

"I said put that away and come to bed..." Jethro propped himself up on one arm to gaze at her more clearly, "...you need to be on the ball tomorrow and _I'm_ not scraping you off the side of the mountain if you're too tired to keep up."

"I'll be right for another half hour or so."

Her partner stifled a resigned sigh, "_You_ might be fine, _I_ won't be... and calling this a 'suite' is pushing the definition."

In fairness to the Belvedere, the room had actually been designated an "executive junior" suite, which apparently meant it was large enough to boast a full sized sitting area at one end, but no actual division of the space beyond a low, double sided credenza. On the upside it made the room spacious and airy, an atmosphere enhanced by it sharing the same view as the lounge below. On the downside it meant that, if one fratello member wanted to sleep, then the other was just going to have to follow suit.

_Or at least that was his argument for this time around._

"One more minute."

"_One._"

Finishing the paragraph she was on, Monty closed down the Ariane 5 user's manual which had been lifted from the Arianespace website. While she had yet to find an exact timeline, the European Space Agency's primary heavy-lift rocket had been intended for commercial use from the outset, and its launch campaign once a satellite arrived for integration was appropriately short. As such, the Blackers' window in which to get their job done was going to correspondingly compact.

_So, business as usual._

Shutting the lid of her laptop the girl stood, unfastening the bath robe she had been using as an extra layer over simple cotton pyjamas and folded it across the back of the couch, before slipping under her own duvet. As seemed oft-standard continental practice, their "double" bed in fact consisted of two twin ensembles, which the staff had kindly pushed together to form a single unit; which meant she at least wouldn't be bounced around every time her partner changed positions. Reaching out from beneath the feathery embrace, she switched off her bedside light and wiggled around slightly to get comfortable, eyes closing as she drifted off toward sleep. From the other side of the bed came the sound of someone else shifting, then...

"Why don't you think anyone else wanted this one?"

Rolling on her side to face her handler, Monty's rapidly adjusting eyes found him on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

"In what terms? As in why didn't it go to the other fratelli?"

Now Jethro turned his head to look back at her in the low, warm glow seeping its way up from the town and through their window. "No, I think we know why it didn't go to them, I mean as in why whatever tipoff brought us here bounced all over the place for so long; normally you'd think this is the sort of thing the Italian intelligence community would be jumping at to try and squeeze some funding out of."

The girl was silent for a few seconds, mulling the question over in the dark. "I can think of a couple of reasons, first and foremost being that they smelt 'trap' all over it as well but decided the payoff wasn't worth the risk. The other..." she paused again, "...the other is that you've got to wonder how well Moratti's connected; and I'd imagine the answer is 'reasonably'."

"His behaviour was certainly that of someone who's grown up with money," put in her handler. "If he's second or third generation then he'll have had a circle of influence to step into and expand on."

"Second from memory... Thing is, if the strings he pulls have some heft to them, then perhaps other agencies weren't willing to go after him for fear of vexing those best left un-vexed... which again raises the question: why us?"

At that, Jethro returned to looking at the ceiling, arms slipping under his pillow to support his head. "Well for starters The Agency is a bit like Italy's dirty secret... oh the other groups probably have their own skeletons tucked away in various closets, but none with quite so many ramifications I imagine rolled up in just one project, or one so complete in its blackness. At least the existence of, say AISE, is _known_ to the public. Of course, in order for someone to blow a whistle when commanded, or withhold funds, the SWA would need to be outed first, and I'm not sure how many people have the backbone to do that lest they be tarred with the political brush of involvement."

"And then even inside the SWA our work is more hush-hush than most... which may go some way to explaining how this job landed squarely on our desk or, for that matter, why there doesn't seem to be anyone waiting in French Guiana for our signal."

"Though that last could simply be a result of budget or manpower constraints," added Jethro.

"Or we really _are_ being set up for a fall."

"And isn't _there_ a happy note to go to sleep on."

"Maybe you should have thought of that possibility before reneging on the 'stop working and come to bed' invitation."

With that Monty rolled over so her back was to him, effectively signalling an end to the conversation and her partner once again found himself staring at the ceiling, mulling over could-bes and might-have-beens, fitting the puzzle together as best he could in his head. If someone really were setting the Agency up, then he had no intention of letting the fall happen on his account. He'd been the scapegoat before and had no urge to repeat the experience. Oh, he had survived it, and could probably survive it again... the handler tilted his head to look at the softly breathing form beside him… though this time the stakes were higher; much, _much_ higher.

The bit of puzzle which didn't seem to fit anywhere however was that, if this were a trap, it would require Moratti to be bait or spring it himself. From everything he knew of the FRF though, except in a few extreme cases, it kept itself tightly compartmentalised. If the industrialist were lending financial and infrastructure support to the Separatists, then the logical thing would be to keep him as far removed from that organisation's operational arm as possible.

_Or perhaps he was just trying to make himself feel better._

Jethro let out a small sigh, as useful as she was, sometimes it seemed life would be a lot simpler if Monty weren't so _good_ at hitting all his mental buttons.

_Bollocks._

* * *

><p>"Can't that go do something constructive… like start an avalanche?" growled Monty, whilst the errant child's mother apologised profusely in French and hurried it away, water pistol still in hand. Removing her sunglasses and dabbing at her face with a paper serviette, the girl was glad she'd never been one to rely heavily on makeup, or that particular encounter could have been disastrous. Still, for this day she was going to need to keep up appearances.<p>

"I'll be back in a minute."

Leaving her handler at the outdoor table to mind their skis, the cyborg made her way back past those others with whom they shared the large terrace outside the _Bergrestaurant_ and into the small complex at First, which marked the termination of the cable car up from Grindelwald itself. Finding the ladies' room, Monty pushed back the tight fitting hood and fur neck warmer of her outfit and extracted from its white, padded jerkin a small compact.

Reinstating what little makeup had been washed or wiped away, remaining careful not to let it drop on the thick white skivvy top or leggings she also wore, did not take long. Applying a final light dusting of shadow to accentuate her already heavily lidded eyes, the young spy snapped the compact shut and replaced it, feeling the reassuring weight of her PPK in the top's other pocket. While the little firearm rarely found itself used in anger, it was always nice to have the option there... and Jethro had not been the only one laying awake the previous night.

Returning to the outdoor seating area, the girl found their table less sparsely populated than when she had left. Next to the sleekly minimalist charcoal outfit of her partner now sat another figure, this one with neatly trimmed dark hair, his outfit dominated by a bright orange quilted jacket. Both men were currently facing away, looking over the valley, and on reaching them she swung around the table to slide gracefully onto the seat opposite her handler, facing him across the detritus of breakfast.

"Sorry for the holdup, but some of the... local wildlife... decided to make a nuisance of itself."

The two ceased their conversation to turn to her and Baldo de Moratti offered a commiserating smile, "One of the problems of public spaces is that they let anyone in, it's part of the reason I prefer to stay just outside town these days."

Jethro looked between the pair of them. "Since we're all here now, how about making a start?"

Monty nodded and the fratello's Italian companion twisted in his seat so as to be able to take in both partners and gestured up the mountain. "I will give you a fast run down of where we're going then, you can see most of it from here. First we take the ski-lift up to Oberjoch."

"From there we leave the crowds and come across the top," he continued, gesturing from the barely visible end of the ski-lift west down the face of the ridgeline. "That will funnel us into this next valley over and we follow the far side. It is not difficult until about half-way, then we cut down toward the valley floor. That gets steep but eventually joins us up with an existing route and we stay with that into Grindelwald."

"To the Belvedere," put in Jethro.

"_Si."_

Monty followed where Moratti was pointing. In stark contrast to the slopes to the eastern side of First, the area appeared steep and jagged as it descended into the valley's abyss. A small pine forest on the western slope marked the extreme end of where they would be able to ski to with some form of ease, it and their route dropping off sharply to disappear behind the top of the First-side ridgeline. That too fell away just as, if not possibly even more, quickly than its opposite, and the next thing not obscured to sight was the town of Grindelwald itself far below.

_It certainly was not going to be a boring run._

Picking up her skis, the girl followed her partner and their associate toward the ski lift which would carry them up to Oberjoch. Fortunately the line was short and, taking a position between the two grown men she was soon sliding forward for the next chair to pick them up. Ostensibly her placement would help balance the bench as it hung suspended from its wire, but it was more intended to prevent her extra weight from making its presence felt.

Someone, somewhere, had apparently put another couple of extra pennies in the sunshine machine and they were again greeted with deep blue skies, juxtaposed against winter sun reflecting bright from the snow below. As the lift carried them up toward the start of their run, Jethro wrapped an arm around his girl, pulling her against him. They must have looked like an odd pairing, the pure white of her outfit against the dark charcoal of his, but at least it meant there was nothing to clash with the searing orange of Moratti's choice.

Thinking carefully about how he was going to phrase the next sentence, the spy looked over his cyborg's head to the Italian. "I realise it's probably poor form to talk business to a captive audience, but I looked up your company last night and you may be just the man I need to talk to."

Baldo, who had been looking out across the slopes turned now and flashed a wry smile. "One of the things you get used to when running a company is that it is _always_ time for business."

Taking that as leave to continue, Jethro went on, "I never mentioned it, but I work for Alstom Grid, specifically in business development. Without going into detail, we're looking to push into the former Eastern Bloc and the Arab States, which involves a lot of remote area work. Long story short, part of what I'm working on at the moment includes sorting out our communications and data management system."

Now he had Moratti's full attention, even if the latter was hiding it well. The man would have had to be familiar with the French multinational power and transport company, and the sort of opportunity a contract from it could represent, which was part of the reason why the SWA had chosen it as a cover. The other part of course being that in an organisation that large, it was easy to lose people as if they had never existed at all.

Unfortunately, that sort of opportunity was the sort which needed to be handled with caution, and at the Italian's level of dealings, part of his job was to look _every_ gift horse in the mouth. When the reply came, it was accordingly neutral.

"That, would certainly be something we could look into taking on, though it's probably not ready to be discussed at our level just yet either." Then he grinned. "Though if remote areas are what you're looking at moving into I do have a project underway which may interest you."

Jethro raised his eyebrows questioningly and the other man continued. "We're actually putting our first satellite up in a few days..."

Between them, Monty kept her face carefully impassive to hide a grimace, seemingly the timeframe they had was even shorter than she had originally anticipated. If it turned out the satellite really did have some sinister second purpose then they were going to need to move quickly should they intend to halt the problem before it _became_ a problem. Beside her though, Moratti was getting more animated as he talked on a subject which was obviously also a passion, setting the chairlift into a gentle sway.

"...Once we have it up in geosynchronous orbit, we'll be able to give uninterrupted coverage for most of the Atlantic all the way over to Iran, and from Russia halfway down the horn of Africa. My original intention was to pick up data traffic off shipping and remote works, particularly on the oil fields. However, it's amazing what they're doing with the hardware these days and the engineers tell me _Mercurio_ will have enough bandwidth to be able to supply those willing to pay for the privilege secure, encrypted channels for an organisation's private usage."

He glanced at Jethro, gauging the response, but Monty also filed the information away. So far her only knowledge on the technology involved came from what had been included as "useful to know" in Ferro's intel packet, as well as some quick internet research. However, while secure channels would indeed be enticing to a company like Alstom, their presence added weight to the possibility the bird wasn't quite all it seemed to be.

The thought had also occurred to her handler, but he remained in character. "Amazing; I try to keep abreast of these things, but even now I keep getting surprised. It's certainly a good marketing pitch… though I'll bet it must have cost a pretty capital investment penny."

Moratti nodded at that, then held up his hands. "It did, the project has had its share of difficulties and delays of course too... new technology... but I think it will be worth the outlay. Patents can only protect so much, sometimes the best protection is to be first to market. But enough work talk, we are here!"

Sliding away from the chairlift, the three quickly separated themselves from the clumps of skiers headed down groomed and established pistes, instead following a pair of snowboarders toward the close by snow park, Monty eyeing the garishly coloured individuals with distaste. Soon however that group was also left behind as they passed out of the park limits and onto fresh, virgin powder. Taking up station behind her handler, the cyborg kept an eye on proceedings as they followed in their Italian guide's tracks, waves of snow tumbling and breaking away from skis carving gentle curves into its pristine surface. To her left, far below on this clear day she could make out the town and, closer, but not by much, the complex at First, crawling past at what seemed an interminably slow rate compared to their pace across ground, all backstopped by the towering mass of _Eiger_. It was an idyllic scene, one which could have been found on any number of post cards or film frames as three tiny specks of humans slid across a great sea of white.

As the _Bergrestaraunt_ drew level, one of the few cleared hiking paths slid under her skis and their gentle run terminated abruptly as the landscape suddenly dropped away. Being funnelled into the valley which would lead them back to Grindelwald, Monty turned her attention back to the task at hand. Moratti had picked up speed as they descended, bouncing and weaving as the snow followed the uneven ground beneath, before starting to claw back some altitude relative to the valley floor as they hugged its western face.

Soon they were well below First and, as their path reached a promontory, Baldo suddenly cut his skis sideways, sliding to a halt. Executing their own similar manoeuvres, the Blackers pulled up next to him.

Using a hand to shade his eyes, Jethro looked out over Grindelwald to the peaks beyond. "Not a bad spot, you can just about see Sphinx Station from here."

"It is." Gesturing out across the valley, their guide went on, "You were wondering where I was staying? Well there it is..."

Looking out to where he pointed, Monty kept her face carefully impassive. While she had been informed ahead of time what to expect by the SWA's intel packet, the reality of it still took some getting used to. Clinging to the steep, almost vertical, valley wall, linked to the town by a thin string of tarmac, was a low, well glazed structure, protected under a gently arcing white concrete roof.

"..._Chalet Moonraker_, named for the ski run from where I first decided on its placement."

Now that she was aware what she was looking at, the girl could discern Moonraker's structure consisted of three distinct components. The part furthest back, which assumedly served as an entrance going by the roadway sweeping toward it, was protected by the most aggressively curved canopy. Slightly above that and jutting out over thin air was an open plan lounge, bar and dining area, its use clearly identifiable through the full glazing which looked out over a terrace and valley below. The final major mass however was much taller, and intersected the circumference of the lounge's circle, its white dome sitting proud of the roofline...

"A telescope?"

Moratti looked at Monty, "Haha, call it a personal indulgence. The location is not ideal but it is a nice vanity to maintain all the same."

_Kara and Henrietta would have a jealous fit._

"Impressive, impressive indeed," put in Jethro. "How did you get the Swiss to let you build the road?"

Now the other man shot them a sly grin. "One of the reasons I like Moonraker is because of how difficult it is to get to. That also makes it very secure. When it was built we designed in the company's backup servers as well, so technically it classifies as a _commercial installation_, rather than a private residence, and the road becomes a service route rather than my personal glorified driveway."

Monty shot the man a small smile of understanding, but behind it she digested that piece of information. Turning her attention back to the chalet, studying it closer she could make out below it a number of openings cut into the mountainside and, in the rock next to the telescope tower's foundation, a long, tall window. Inside appeared to be a swimming pool and, further back more glass doors into a living space... assumedly the master suite. The question now of course was: where was the server room? The most secure place would be to bury it deep under the mountain. However that would be astronomically expensive to do. It would also need some sort of secure, private entry, stable temperatures, and a reliable power supply.

Now her eyes swivelled to the tower which supported the telescope at it summit; the solid, stable, thick walled tower, which keyed into the rock right next to Moratti's private retreat.

"I take it, there's a certain number of tax breaks one can look forward to by letting the company own the building?" said Jethro, bringing the girl back to the present.

"It does help keep the _Guardia _at arm's length."

With that the man pushed away with his ski poles, sending himself gliding again along the slope, and the fratello followed suit once more.

The descent to Grindelwald was almost a mirror of the journey so far, mountainside steepening as they skirted a small pine forest which blocked their way; gentle, linked turns throwing up more powder in graceful arcs. Gradually the land levelled out as the town appeared before them, their path briefly joining a marked yellow trail which ran along the final spur leading into the back of the Hotel Belvedere.

Unhooking her skis, Monty set about removing her ski boots, before collecting her handler's as well to take them up to their room, leaving the two men to retire to the lounge with instructions on what she wanted to drink. While it gave Jethro the chance to get the conversation flowing again, it also gave her a chance to think… and she had a bit to think about. "A few days" was a fairly vague manner in which to measure time, but it was certainly not one destined to instil her with confidence.

Letting herself inside and setting the fratello's heavy footwear down, she found her pair of white gogo boots to replace them whilst her computer started up. Moratti certainly hadn't been shy of talking about the servers in Moonraker's basement either, a fact which the _Guardia_ file on him had also trumpeted around with some fanfare, thought it was nice to get confirmation from the proverbial horses' mouth. Still, one man's good financial sense was always likely to be another beancounters' potential fraud. If time really was as short as she thought it was though, then she would have to run taking a crack at those ASAP past her handler later; assuming he couldn't pry them an opening on his own.

Her Macbook Pro now booted, the girl flicked open its web-browser to quickly get a rough idea of how long it would take to fly to Cayenne, French Guiana… and she had a nasty feeling she wasn't going to like the answer.

* * *

><p>"You've certainly an impressive sounding piece of kit there," intoned Jethro, as Moratti went into greater detail about the capabilities of his new satellite. The definition as 'his' probably wasn't too short of the mark either as the man had obviously been heavily involved with each step of his new toy's development.<p>

Catching a flash of white reflected off the glass in front of him, the handler rounded to find Monty sidling into the lounge and gave her a subtle wave. Changing direction to their partitioned area, she flashed both men a small smile, before picking up the negroni waiting on the table for her and settled onto the arm of her partner's chair, resting herself against him and across its back. Taking the cue, Jethro wrapped his own free arm around her waist, hand settling on her thigh where his thumb absent-mindedly stroked the fabric beneath it. Across the table he caught their associate's eyes flicker again before their attention returned to his own face.

The spy started to speak again, "As I was saying, your bird sounds like an impressive piece of kit. I'd love to get a closer look at it."

"Unfortunately it has already departed for Arianespace." Moratti shrugged, before shooting him a wry grin, "Besides, being first to market is only good IP protection if no-one can follow suit quickly enough, showing people how it's done would defeat the point of the exercise!"

"Ah well, it was worth a shot," returned the handler with his own lackadaisical smile, "but it really does sound like an engineering masterpiece."

"It would want to be for what I paid!"

Now the communications magnate leaned back in his own seat, studying the pair opposite, eyes flicking between them. Finally, he seemingly made up his mind.

"If you are interested Jacob, I am having a bit of a social gathering…" he glanced at his watch, "…three days from now, so two days after tomorrow, to celebrate the launch of _Mercurio_; friends, and some _favoured_ clients. I would like to see you there… plus one of course."

Jethro glanced at his girl, raising his eyebrows in silent enquiry, though it was more to buy time than anything. The next question was: did he push his luck a little now, roll the dice for one more time…

"We'd love to," he said, coming to a decision. "Unfortunately our hotel room is only available for another night, then we must be on our merry way to make space for someone else… dangers of walking in mid-season with no booking. I'll talk to the front desk, but…"

Moratti was silent and the spy held his metaphorical breath…

"Let me make a phonecall."

Putting his drink down, the Italian extracted his own phone and, standing up, stepped out onto the lounge terrace, sliding the double-glazed door shut behind him. Fixing her handler with a stare, Monty cocked an eyebrow, but all she received in return was a helpless shrug. Outside their mark was talking on his mobile, looking out toward the mountains across the valley. Occasionally he'd glance back inside, before continuing the conversation.

Soon however he returned and, pocketing the device, eyed his two companions. "See what you can organise with the hotel. If they can't accommodate you, I have a guest room free at Moonraker."

In Jethro's head, the dice rattled to a halt, his numbers pointed skywards.

* * *

><p>"I thought you may have pushed it one bridge too far there."<p>

Reaching across the centre console, Jethro gave his partner's leg an encouraging squeeze. "So did _I_ for a second."

"One of these days you're going to misjudge it."

"Yes dear."

Strangely enough, the Belvedere had _not_ in fact been able to accommodate the Blackers, and they had been forced to take up Baldo de Moratti's kind offer of a room. Moving his hand back off his partner's leg, the handler knocked their loaner Aston down another cog, gliding into the next bend then accelerating smoothly out as the GT powered its way up the single lane access road toward Moonraker. For a glorified driveway, the thin string of tarmac wasn't a bad steer.

Swinging around another switchback to claw more altitude, the road disappeared into a short tunnel, cut into the mountain's stone and open on one side, stout pillars flashing past the passenger window until it spat the car out in front of the chalet proper.

The drive they emerged onto was guarded at its entrance by a boom gate and small security hut, at which the fratello presented their passports for inspection. Being quickly waved through, the gravel swept around in a wide circle, past a set of garage doors in the cliff face and guiding their car under the gentle curve of the chalet's concrete roof to its glazed entrance. Where the outer corner touched the ground a large boulder had been placed and topped by a stylised steel rocket sculpture, lifting off out of it on a pillar of smoke and fire.

"I get the impression our chap Baldo may be a fan of Candela and Saarinen," commented Jethro.

"...Or has just walked through the TWA terminal one too many times."

"It does have a definite 'space in the 60's' vibe going doesn't it?"

Crunching to a halt under the concrete shell, Jethro left his engine idling and popped the boot as two uniformed men exited the building, trotting down a short flight of stairs toward them. While her handler passed off the Aston's keys, Monty directed the second porter to those bags the fratello would require, before both members followed their staffer up the stairs and through a wide airlock, presumably there to keep the cold at bay.

Through the glazed doors the pair found themselves in a wide foyer, buffed black marble under their feet, arc matching that of the glass facing. To their right the space ended abruptly, partitioned by slender planks of rich wood, highly polished steel trim inlaid horizontally between them at intervals, whilst to the left the floor continued its curve around and down, descending into the mountain. Presumably that lead to guest quarters as, with a slight bow their porter disappeared down the ramp. Ahead the room's level stepped up again, each side of the rise dressed as a dry stone wall topped with large-leaved tropical plants, an expensive vanity here, before disappearing down an ovoid tunnel, the end of which, from this angle, could not be seen.

Monty glanced at her handler, raising a questioning eyebrow and the spy was about to reply when someone else broke the silence for him.

"Welcome! To Moonraker!"

_Well, he certainly knows how to play up the theatre._

From the upper tunnel emerged Baldo de Moratti, arms held wide. Gone were the skiing clothes, replaced instead by a cleanly cut black Nehru suit, finished with a sharply pointed pocket square.

As the Italian descended toward them, Jethro held out a hand. "A chalet called 'Moonraker' and he dresses as Dr. No; you're not doing much for the argument against being some sort of megalomaniacal villain, Baldo."

That got another grin. "Well, if you are to believe the popular press, it's impossible to be rich and not evil anyway, so why not just play to the stereotype?"

"Touché."

Swinging around behind the fratello, Moratti ushered them forward toward from where he had just emerged, "Come, I will give you the tour."

Listening to idle chatter crossing above her head, Monty accompanied her partner down the ovoid tunnel, its far end opening out into a much larger space. Taking in the view out the floor to ceiling windows to her left, the girl realised this had to be the part of the chalet she had seen jutting out over the cliff, which would make the convex wall at the far end of the space part of the observatory tower. Between her and it was a large bar, also circular, situated under the room's centre. While unmanned at the minute, it was obviously intended to be crewed by a full staff during functions, with access presumably to the kitchen down either side.

The bar itself stood proud of the rest of the public space, a set of wide stairs curving back toward her hugging the concentric edge of its stage. Around the lower level's circumference were placed a similarly curved dining table toward the observatory, then some scattered chairs and a glass coffee table. At the end closest to her had been built a large, free standing, circular fireplace of stone and polished steel, tucked into the protection of a curved wall, providing it some privacy from the level above to any would be occupants. Beyond the glazed outer wall of the room, making the most of the view, was a wide terrace of concrete. Allowing guests to walk around the entire valley edge of the lounge, it terminated at the telescope tower on one end, and the mountain's raw rock on the other, where that same rock intruded through the glass and into the fireplace's nook.

"Impressive."

Moratti eyed the girl curiously, apparently not sure how to interpret the deadpan comment, and glancing at Jethro, who was unfortunately also not providing any clues. Then he shrugged, "I like to think so."

Motioning to the far end, where the telescope housing's wall had been finished in a similar wood treatment to the foyer, he went on, "My observatory is through there, but we won't bother with that until tonight, however feel free to help yourself to the bar, or page someone if you are hungry. The fire is controlled from behind the bar as well should you want it."

"Butane?"

"_Si."_

Now Baldo turned to face his guests, "I have asked the staff to prepare dinner for seven. Other than that, it is still two days until the launch, so make yourselves at home. I will show you to your room so you can get settled in."

The walk back to the foyer, then along the tunnel down which the porter had disappeared was quiet. The tunnel itself enjoyed a grey stone floor, curved walls and ceiling washed white with inset lights and more wood detailing running up the inside edge to just above head height.

Stopping at a door with a large "2" painted in orange onto it, its top level with the corridor's trim, Moratti turned to the Blackers and handed them an RFID card each. "Guest room two is yours, those cards will unlock the door."

Now he ran his eyes over the pair, lingering almost imperceptibly on the girl, "Do either of you swim?"

Monty cocked an eyebrow, waiting to see where the new tack was going, but her partner answered instead, "I do a bit, but her more so."

The Italian grinned, "Good! My own suite includes a heated lap pool; seeing as you will be here a few days, I will have your cards cleared to access that."

"Are you sure?" the girl glanced at her partner, "I'm not positive I've anything packed to swim _in_."

"We could skinny dip."

That earned an unimpressed look.

Now Moratti shrugged. "The intention was always to make the pool available to guests should I see fit, so I can lock my own suite separately if that is what you are asking, it is available any time."

"Thank you very much."

"Now I will leave you two in peace."

As their host continued on down the tunnel until he was lost behind its curve, Jethro got the fratello's door open and gently laid a hand in the small of his girl's back, ushering her through. Beyond the door was a small landing, atop a tight curved staircase leading down and back so it swung under the access tunnel and toward the mountain's face, its white walls and floor illuminated by spotlights down the roof's centreline. At the bottom was another short tunnel with an alcove for hanging wet clothing, and another door, leading assumedly to their accommodation. If worst came to worst it would make a good defensive position.

Opening the room, Jethro stuck his head through and immediately turned to start making a circuit clockwise around the space, whilst his partner started her own bug sweep going the opposite direction. Stepping around their bags which had been left by the entrance, the girl began with the bathroom. In contrast to the slightly retro vibe of the rest of the facility, it boasted minimalistly modern fittings; a squared off toilet and bidet, his and hers sinks and a half-glazed wet area with dual showerheads, jutting out from more raw cut mountain rock. Despite the clean lines, whatever architect had been responsible for Moonraker had obviously not wanted his occupants to forget where they were.

Finding nothing the girl followed the rock outcrop as it continued through the dividing wall and back into the main living space. Here a small work desk had been built into its contours before it again continued out through glazed sliding doors to a jacuzzi equipped terrace of concrete and stone. Passing her partner in front of the exit, the cyborg kept searching her way around the room until they met again at its entrance.

Raising questioning brows, the spy waited for his cyborg to shake her head in response before offering a smile, "No, me neither."

Now it was Monty's turn to cock an eyebrow, "Did you see the shower?"

"Yes… and the bed. It would seem Moratti's reached his own conclusion on us."

Turning back around, the girl eyed the bed, a circular mattress on a built-in pedestal with mirrors curving around the top quarter. It resided on a low stage, two steps up from the main floor, where its occupants would be able to get a good view outside, above the head of anyone in the seating area between the glazing and them. Despite the fratello's age gap however it was only _one_ bed.

_So far, so good then_.

"Were you going to take him up on the pool offer?"

"Assuming I've something packed I intend to," replied the girl, carefully leaving out any suspicions about server room access. While they may not have found any snooping devices, that didn't mean they weren't there.

"Good, then I say we unpack and spend some time making ourselves known to the _staff du maison_."

* * *

><p>Standing back from one of the large bags which had accompanied Ferro from Rome Monty, not for the first time, wondered if Priscilla <em>actually<em> thought of everything; or just threw in whatever caught her fancy regardless of the context in which it was to be worn. Despite the young agent's earlier misgivings about only being packed for the Alps, the SWA's bubbly intelligence analyst had provided her with a number of swim suits to choose from.

_Oh well, at least she now had the advantage of choice._

Discarding the Ursula Andres/Dr. No-esque bikini on the pile's summit, a leftover from some time spent in Jamaica, as probably pushing things a little hard, the girl instead selected a low cut and carefully detailed white one piece. Despite still elevating style over practicality, it would give the impression that she was at least paying lip service to the facade of exercise. Pulling on a short, midnight blue and silver silk kimono over the top of it, Monty then grabbed one of the provided fluffy white towels, before sliding into a pair of similarly textured slippers which had been left for her by the staff.

Collecting her key card and phone, she made her way to the corridor, turning right and down toward Moratti's private quarters. Two more guest rooms passed by, before the corridor ahead ended abruptly at a heavy looking sliding door, assumedly the entrance to the master suite. At the door itself, the hall was pinched by the curve of the observatory foundation creating a natural bottle neck, but what drew Monty's attention more were the two security personnel stationed on either side.

She hadn't had a chance to get a good look at the guard at the gate, but these two gave her a better idea of what to expect. Both wore identical patrol caps bearing the company logo and blue-grey short fitted jackets, sealed at the neck. Each also carried a radio, torch and, her sharp vision picked out more details, a Beretta Cougar handgun holstered on his belt. Of potentially greater concern however were the submachine guns, from the same manufacturer, carried by each slung from one shoulder. Seemingly the corporate component of Moonraker took its security seriously.

_Well, hopefully the staff have enjoyed plenty of opportunity to talk by now._

From their arrival until dinner, she and Jethro had spent their time in the public lounge, none too subtly curled up together on one of the couches by the fire, reading, chatting quietly and generally doing their best to give the help something to gossip about. With a bit of luck that would have accelerated news of their presence through the facility's invariable scuttlebutt and limit the questions to be asked here. Now it was time to test if all that _being visible_ had paid off.

Not breaking her stride, Monty flashed the guards a fleeting smile, withdrawing her RFID card from the kimono's pocket as she did so. Reaching for the proximity sensor she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Hold on a minute miss."

Pulling the card back, she turned to the guard who had stopped her, a look of puzzled innocence on her face. "Is there a problem?"

"Not at all miss," replied the guard, sweeping the PM12 subgun behind himself. "Just thought you should be aware Mr. Moratti is in and still awake."

"That's ok, he said I could come and go... _whenever_ I felt like."

"Right you are."

Stepping aside the guard let her past to swipe her card, causing the door to snap open with a hiss before rapidly closing behind her again as she crossed its threshold.

The room ahead had been carved from the grey rock of the mountainside, its rough edges being left in place to give it the feeling of a natural cavern. Clean, white concrete blades arched up to meet and support the ceiling, cantilevering out toward yet more glazing on the outer wall, contrasting against the jagged, dark stone. Round down lights, set into the roof illuminated the area dimly, reflecting off polished stone floors and the space's centrepiece, a single lane lap pool, positioned close to the exterior glass.

At the far end hung a fireplace, suspended from the roof by its flue, another butane flame dancing inside, adding a patch of warmth to the otherwise cold space. A couple of deck chairs had been placed incongruously beside it to take advantage of its heat, their sheet metal stampings folded into sharp, origami creases. Moving to those Monty put down her towel and, as she slipped off her kimono, took the chance to get another look around. Another door, leading only God knew where, was set into the concrete of the wall at this end, giving a clean surface amongst rock crags, while at the back of the cave glass doors looked in on an intimately lit private lounge, currently unoccupied.

Of more interest however was where the curve of the observatory tower intruded on the swimming pool space as it followed its course through from the hall, for next to where she had entered, a second door was built into the tower wall, a combined keypad and card reader mounted to one side. Unfortunately closer inspection was probably going to have to wait until Moratti was out or confirmed asleep, and the earliest time she could see either event happening right now was the night of the launch party itself, which wasn't helpful.

Slipping quietly into the pool, Monty felt warm water rise up her body, relieving her of the chill coming through from snowy alpine air outside, held at bay by triple glazing. Ducking under the water, she kicked off the wall, surfacing to fall into a relaxed freestyle stroke. Turning at the far end she continued swimming until, on another return, a new flash of light caught her eye.

Completing her lap, Monty halted, lifting her head up out of the water to hang off the end of the pool, wiping sodden hair back from her face with the other hand; silhouetted in the previously closed doorway stood Baldo Moratti wearing a silk dressing gown, just watching. Behind him she could see the outlines of a bedroom.

Seeing her stop, the Italian raised his eyebrows, "Bit late?"

Pushing off the wall, the girl paddled backwards a bit, treading water to get a better angle with which to fix him with her gaze. "Couldn't sleep, and you did say 'any time'."

"That I did."

Leaving his door open, Moratti ambled down the three steps from his bedroom, padding bare footed across the warm stone flooring around the pool, and sat down on one of the deck chairs, never taking his eyes from her. Hoisting herself out of the water whilst he watched, Monty took the two paces to retrieve her towel, before starting to dry herself off, standing close to the fire in order to scavenge some of its heat.

A minute passed in silence.

As she finished scrubbing away at her hair, her companion spoke up. "Well, if you're having trouble sleeping, you don't think I could convince you to join me for a… night cap?"

"Tad forward…" she replied softly, finishing fastening her kimono. Pausing what she was doing for a moment, Monty offered the man an indulgent, heavy-lidded smile. Her tone however was cool. "As _tempting_ as the offer is, I'm afraid I am going to have to decline. If I'm gone too long I fear Jacob may miss me."

"I'm sure you can spare ten minutes."

"Only ten?" she let her eyes flick briefly to where the Italian had his hands folded in his lap and cocked an eyebrow. "That hardly seems worth the effort."

"Perhaps half an hour."

"_Goodnight_, Mister Moratti."

With that, the girl stepped again into her slippers, collected her towel, key card and, with one last smile to turn the knife, made for the exit; leaving her host sitting on his chair at the poolside... alone.

* * *

><p>With daybreak, the Blackers had awoken to bright sunlight and a thick cloud layer washing up against the base of their balcony wall. Now that incorporeal vapour created across the valley a false floor, white as the snow passing beneath their skis and stretching to the slope's twin in the far distance.<p>

Breakfast that morning after had been a convivial affair, with no mention or sign of Moratti's nocturnal invitations. The man in fact had shown no indication anything out of the ordinary had passed, and Jethro theorised he was either used to that response, or was hiding his jilting well... possibly the latter, as part of the spy couldn't help but feel their billionaire host was unlikely to find himself spurned regularly.

_Or_ _he was used to keeping his affairs, real or attempted, under wraps... if he had indeed given in._

That, for now however was something he was going to need to leave in his girl's capable hands.

Scything through another turn, he caught a glimpse of the white-clad shape following along in his wake, what they needed now was a way forward... one preferably to be discussed out of range of any snooping devices which may have been missed.

Skidding to a halt just above the still present cloud tops, the handler waited for his partner to catch up, executing her own stop and sliding up level at his side. Shifting ski poles to one hand, he put the other arm across her shoulders as they both gazed out over the cloud filled valley to the chalet resting atop its own bed of white.

Behind large sunglasses, Monty studied the building intently, then, lips barely moving, looked up at the man beside her. "Don't stare, but I think we're being watched; lower guest balcony and another just outside the telescope housing."

From this range he was going to have to take her word for it, and slid around so that his body shielded her from view. Linking his arms behind her, the handler drew his partner in, not easy on skis, and leaned down to plant a light kiss on her forehead as her own arms snaked around the back of his neck, then another more fervently on her lips for the benefit of those watching. Breaking away again after a second, the fratello held their position, forehead to forehead.

"So where to from here?"

In his embrace, Monty collected her thoughts. "I would like to take a stab at the access from Moratti's pool area tonight. The guards should have gossiped a bit more by now I hope, which deals with the first line of security."

"And the only known quantity."

"Yes... I'm hoping whatever Ferro gave us will be able to deal with the inner lock."

"I don't like the word 'hope'." There was silence for a few seconds, then Jethro put in, "If you can't get in first go though, timing's going to become an issue; we may have to up sticks and head for Guiana whether we know something or not."

"Believe me I'm more than aware of that." came the reply. "Optimally this would be a job for the small hours just after the launch party; once everyone has left or lapsed into a food and wine coma."

"If wishes were horses..."

"...then beggars would ride," the girl paused momentarily. "But unless something diabolical happens to Moratti's bird, tonight's going to have to be it. Even then we'll be cutting things far too fine should we need to act on Mercury."

"Issue being of course that you'll have to go through our host's quarters."

"Another reason I'd prefer to go in after the party, with a bit of luck he'd find someone to keep himself occupied."

_We may need to stress the point that you're _mine _and not available to get him to do that._

Jethro however kept the thought to himself, "If it comes to that you'd probably best make a point of sticking to me, but lets right now assume we won't be so lucky. I might try and grab him for a bit of bloke talk tonight, if you can find a way to wiggle out of our presence for an hour or so..."

"I'm sure I can come up with something. Exit strategy?"

"Still working on it, it'll be difficult to miss the party all things considered."

"I'll put some thought to that as well."

Giving his partner a lopsided grin, the handler planted one final kiss before sliding backwards and turning back down the slope.

"Talk again at the bottom."

* * *

><p>It was an annoyed looking Monty whom stepped out of the black Aston Martin hours later, and headed into the chalet without waiting for her partner. Entering after her, burdened with both sets of ski boots, Jethro was just in time to watch his girl disappear down the tunnel toward their room, a slightly surprised Baldo de Moratti looking after her, telephone held loosely in his hand.<p>

As she swept out of sight around the curve, the Italian turned back to his second house guest and threw him a questioning look, "Marital trouble?"

"_Funny_…" Glancing down toward where his cyborg had disappeared to, the handler sighed. "…but it's not all golf and badminton keeping her around if that's what you're asking."

Pausing he looked at the boots in his hand. "If you don't mind I might ditch these here for the moment and grab a drink, it's probably best I steer clear for half an hour or so."

"Be my guest..." Moratti glared ruefully at his phone, "...and I might join you in that drink."

Dropping the boots by the tunnel entrance, Jethro headed for the lounge area, Moratti walking ahead, phone pressed to his head and talking rapidly. Keeping one ear tuned in, the SWA man circled around the back of the bar to retrieve a bottle of XO cognac and two brandy balloons. Placing both on the bench he poured a measure for each man as the Italian peeled his mobile away from his face and uttered something foul.

Pushing the second glass across the countertop, the spy gave a commiserating smile. "I take it everything isn't entirely fine and dandy in your world either."

"You could say that," Moratti took a sip of his drink. "That was Arianespace; they're pushing the launch back."

"Unfortunate."

The Italian glowered at his companion, "That's one way to put it. I wanted a dry season launch but one or two of the technical hang-ups took longer to sort than expected, which has landed me a wet-season launch window. Now they tell me the weather is closing in and it will be at least another two days before they can try again."

Jethro kept his features sympathetic, but internally breathed a massive sigh of relief; someone apparently liked and was looking out for him.

"If your celebration needs to be pushed back as well I don't know if we'll be able to hang around for it."

Across the counter, Moratti sighed and shook his head. "No, the party will have to go ahead as planned. There are too many people coming who are too difficult to organise for me to go changing dates now."

The spy's ears pricked up at that and he threw out a grin, "Anyone I know?"

"Depends on who you are already acquainted with, but most are out of the Italian business community. If you don't recognise anyone, look at this as a good chance to network."

Knocking back the last of his cognac, the billionaire stood up from his seat. "Now if you will excuse me, I need to go and have some alternative arrangements made."

"Good luck, personally I'm going to stay here and figure out how I intend to dodge sleeping on the couch tonight."

Finishing his own drink at a somewhat more leisurely pace as the man left, Jethro took a moment to think as he collected both glasses and started to wash them by hand. Technically there was a staff for this sort of thing, and a dishwasher... but charging immediately back to his room was not right now really an option.

_If anything it at least gave him time to think._

If the fratello could fit the actual launch party into their travel plans it could certainly be advantageous, particularly considering some of Moratti's known associates; he would need to get a look at the who's who from Monty. Finishing at the sink and picking up a tea towel, the handler spotted something else behind the bar and smiled… a little work there probably wouldn't go amiss on that front either.

Flicking on the espresso machine, he let it warm up while he dried and polished the second brandy balloon, replacing it carefully before scrounging up two coffee cups. Four carefully pulled shots and a jug of well steamed milk later, a pair of decent strength cappuccinos sat side by side on the bench top. Dusting their tops with cocoa powder he picked them up and turned for the foyer.

_Well, that was probably about all the procrastination he could reasonably manage._

Walking carefully, so as to avoid spilling anything, Jethro made his way back to the fratello's room and down its narrow flight of uneven stairs. Shifting both cups to one hand as he arrived at the inner door, he knocked a code before pushing it open.

Rising wordlessly from the small sitting area, Monty made for the exit. She didn't get far though and her partner used his free arm to field her escape, letting her momentum swing him around as he pushed the door closed with a foot.

"Hold it! Where do you think you're going luv?" As the wood clicked shut behind he put his face closer to hers to speak softly. "Guiana's experiencing _weather_, launch date's been pushed back two days."

"Party?"

"Still on schedule."

There was a pause while his girl digested the implications of that. Then she offered a heavy-lidded smile and raised a wry eyebrow. "Guess we had better kiss and make up then."

"Guess we'd better." Stepping back, Jethro held out one of the coffees and said more loudly, "A peace offering."

"Read my mind."

"Good."

Passing off his girl's drink, the handler guided her gently back to the couch, then took a sip of his own cup. Not bad, he may not be able to cook worth a damn, but pulling a decent coffee was certainly not beyond him, he glanced down at his partner; a surprisingly critical skill at times in his line of work. Shuffling across the cushions so she could lean against his side, Monty rested her head on his shoulder.

"So?" she whispered into his ear. "Fill me in."

* * *

><p>Taking another sip of high quality and highly expensive champagne, Monty slid a little closer to her partner, allowing the hand he had placed on her shoulder to slide down the length of her black cocktail dress to rest at her waist, causing the man standing opposite to falter slightly in his speech.<p>

"…umm, but as I was saying: our Asian bulk routes survived us through the GFC reasonably unscathed, and that's given us a chance to pick up a number of foreign lines quite cheaply, particularly in the intermodal sector. Once the economy starts pulling again, I hope that investment will pay off."

"And so Baldo's _Mercurio _bird will give you the capacity to keep track of the more… eclectic, if that's the right word… cargo?"

"That was the thinking yes. Coming in as a partner seemed like a good way to get in early and secure some of the bandwidth, though I admittedly cannot take credit for the idea."

Keeping one ear on the conversation, the girl stowed that particular tidbit of information away to chase up later, and let her eyes wander around Moonraker's large entertaining space. Whoever had organised the guest list had done their maths well and, although it was busy, the area didn't feel cramped… despite the wild gesticulation going on as the predominantly Italian crowd talked to each other. Amongst them were some familiar faces from Moratti's list of known associates, whom the fratello were slowly doing the rounds of, along with a few choice others… including this board member from_ Marittima Italiana S.p.A._

In front of her the man took another draft from his glass then leaned in closer, "To be honest with you, I feel we're trying to expand a little too rapidly while the economic climate is still uncertain, but there's a lot of pressure coming from other board members to push ahead."

"Some hoping for a golden handshake if it all goes tits-up no doubt," put in Jethro cynically.

"Actually, bar one or two, the older members have been more cautious," the businessman took another swig, holding his glass out to a passing waitress for a refill. "It's those who bought in during the capital raising, trust and investment funds mostly, which are putting on the pressure to expand."

"Odd, most of the fund managers I know are battening down the hatches."

"_Exactly_; it's one thing to take a risk, but another to start… how do you say, 'betting the farm'. I guess it's easier when you're playing with someone else's money," the man almost spat those last words.

Monty felt her handler start to draw breath, probably to start steering the conversation toward names or organisations, but he was interrupted by the arrival of their host, a man and a woman in tow.

"Mario! Jacob, just the people I wanted to see!" he paused, and his eyes flicked across her, then back to the two men. "These are Vesna Garin and Ivan Dorofeyev; they're part of a consortium looking to start exporting LNG out of the Russian Federation. Vesna, Ivan, these are Mario Romano and Jacob Metcalf. Mario is a board member for _Marittima Italiana _and Jacob works for Alstom Grid."

Feeling Jethro shift his grip so as to shake hands, Monty found herself again subject of Moratti's attention, and she met his eyes levelly, cocking an eyebrow. The man held her gaze for a second, before taking the hint and turning back to manage the conversation which he had just started. Once it gained enough momentum to continue on its own, he slipped away again to corral another pair of launch party guests. Those he picked up she didn't have names for, yet, but recognised as having helped fill one of the three remaining guest rooms at the chalet. That had the potential to complicate her job, but she took solace in the fact that all the rooms' occupants so far appeared to be maintaining a steady intake of alcohol, and that half of this particular pair was almost certainly a _plus one_.

What also gave her hope was that she had been swimming again the previous night, and Moratti did not seem to have handed out any more pool invitations, or if he had, few were availing themselves of the gesture.

_Now if he would just go and find himself someone else to play with…_

Their latest introduction would perhaps make a decent candidate to try and swing his way and, as she felt her handler start to manoeuvre her toward a set of lounge chairs which had just come free, she ran an eye over Vesna. The woman was probably in her early thirties, platinum blonde and well proportioned, but seemed somehow at least _professionally_ attached to the elder man she accompanied. As she continued her study, Monty caught the Russian cast a sideways glance at her handler and, as they arrived at their destination, instead of taking her own chair, the girl plonked herself down on the arm of her partner's, allowing him to take a hold of her around the waist.

That seemingly prompted the elder Ivan to shoot the fratello a disapproving glare. However, when he opened his mouth to speak, the tone remained frosty, "Baldo was kind to set this up, but I am not being interested trading with either of you. Mr. Romano, Italy's financial state is too tenuous for comfort…"

Now Jethro jumped in, keeping his tone carefully level, "and yet here we are at a party held by the chairman of an Italian company… enjoying his vodka."

The Russian didn't see fit to answer that statement. "…and as to France Mr. Metcalf; I live through Soviet era and am _not_ comfortable with a Socialist government's ability to manage the country's economics."

"Alstom is a large, international corporation… it seems unfair to judge us on a single government."

"Being international only makes you a juicier target for the State."

Monty studied the two Russians more closely as the conversation continued. Moratti had made no secret of his intention get people together and networking, so arriving with such a belligerent attitude seemed at odds with the spirit of the evening. Even if the man had no wish to trade with either _Marittima_ or Alstom right now, it still didn't hurt to make the contacts and open up future options.

In all reality, if Ivan Dorofeyev was not going to be expecting a follow up phone-call, that suited the fratello's ends just fine. However question still remained of what the man's motives were, and space to wonder if he wasn't playing the same game.

Feeling another set of eyes on her, the young agent turned to Ivan's companion, and cocked an eyebrow, causing Vesna to turn away from where she had been staring. Taking a moment to realise what the subject of the woman's attention had been, the cyborg reached up to touch briefly at the artificial scarring where the rifle round had gone through her arm in Turkey, and gave an internal grimace. First chance they got, she was going to need to have that patched properly.

Emptying the last dregs in his glass, Jethro stood up, theatrically fielding his girl as he did so. "Well, I'm sorry I've not been able to sway your mind Ivan. If in the future your attitude does change, I'm sure Alstom Grid will be happy to accommodate you. Now if you will excuse me, I see our host has the observatory open, and I am rather curious to take a look."

Guiding his partner away, the spy bent down to talk in her ear. "Funny way to 'network'."

"My thoughts exactly… though if he's here I'd like to know more about this LNG project."

Threading a path through the crowd, the fratello made its way to the far end of the room and the wood clad wall of the observatory tower. Finding where the camouflaged door had been left ajar, they slipped through away from the crowd.

The room on the other side was probably about six metres in diameter, dimly lit and bitingly cold as, out its open shutters, stars could be seen twinkling against inky blackness. Pulling the heavily insulated panel closed behind them and shutting out the noise of humanity, Jethro plucked down two of the provided parkas, hung from the wall by the door, and handed one to his cyborg. Sealing the garment, the girl straightened it and, as she began to warm up again, started to follow her partner around the room as he talked through each piece of equipment lining the walls. Leaving one ear open to the occasional bit of bollocks he created to cover a gap, Monty made use of the low lighting and turned the bulk of her attention to study the observatory's interior. Unlike the luxurious fit out on the domestic areas of Moonraker, this room was finished in naked, if neatly rendered, concrete and a tough, non-slip flooring: a working room rather than one for show.

Despite her closer inspection as they made their circuit, the young agent could not see any signs of an access down to its lower levels, and the only way in or out appeared to be via the public lounge. That could be both good and bad for her job tonight, but at least it was one less direction she would risk being surprised from.

Completing their slow circle, Jethro stuck his eye to the massive telescope's eyepiece and waved his partner over, "Take a look."

She had just started toward him in response to the invitation when a click behind caused her to spin around to face the opening door, relaxing again as through the gap came Moratti and…

…Monty kept her features carefully flat as in his wake followed a woman, raven hair done up in a complex variation of a pony-tail, leaving its end draped over one shoulder, held clear of strong facial features. The hair matched her black and light gold satin dress, wide trim expertly folded to drape over one shoulder then wrap under the other arm, highlighting sizable breasts, the lighter colouring picked up also in accents below her waist and again on tall gladiator heels.

_Well, _this _was interesting._

Sliding a hand around the woman so it rested atop her buttocks, Moratti brought her forward as Jethro came away from the telescope, and gestured to the Blackers. "Vanessa, I would like to introduce you to two of my house guests, Jacob Metcalf and his… niece… Lara Rigg. Jacob, Lara, this is Vanessa Lye. She's one of your countrymen; I thought it might do you good to hear a home accent."

Not faltering, the ex-SIS man held out a hand. "A pleasure to meet you_, _Ms. Lye."

"And you Mr. Metcalf, Ms. Rigg… Baldo here tells me you have been talking to Mario."

"We have," replied Jethro, as Monty also shook hands.

"Vanessa here is with Universal Export," put in Moratti.

"Sussing out the competition huh?"

The woman's eyes narrowed slightly, "You could say that."

Now her Italian companion laughed, "_Something like that_ indeed! Actually she's here because one of _Marittima's_ subsidiaries has been looking for someone to joint venture their container tracking equipment through _Mercurio _with…"

…Very_ interesting…_

"…shall we nip back out somewhere warmer?"

"Good plan."

As they slipped back out into the entertaining area, the Blackers again relived of their borrowed coats, Vanessa turned to them. "Speaking of 'somewhere warmer', I see Europol has hit a bit of a wall with that casino which was knocked over the other month."

"Is that so… I _read_ about that." Jethro's voice was controlled, tinged with mild, polite curiosity. "We've been on the road, keeping abreast of local events can be a mite tough. What have _you_ heard?"

"Just what the papers have had to say: that they think those two dead chaps the Egyptians picked up might have had something to do with it. The boat was spotted in Monaco harbour, and traced back to some Italian mobster."

"Sounds like she had a sordid past."

"In so many words, yes," now the woman cast a contemplative eye over both fratello members. "Oddly enough though, there's no record anywhere of who was in possession of her at the time, or might have visited aboard in Monaco… all the camera footage _mysteriously_ disappeared."

"You don't say."

Beside her partner, Monty breathed a small sigh of relief, _good boy Jax_. At least she _hoped_ it had been Jax who hunted down and erased the footage, he had certainly been supposed to. What she didn't remember was seeing any of that particular news just mentioned in the papers, at least the ones _she_ read. Admittedly going hiking through the Amazon jungle had thrown a spanner in those works just recently, but such a high profile heist tended to result in the press circling like vultures… which had been half the point to begin with. With the amount of scrutiny currently focused on The Fairmont, Monte Carlo, nothing clandestine would be happening there any time in the near future.

"I'm sure it won't stop them flipping over all the stones," she settled for.

"I'm sure it won't," came the reply, "Europol seem to have gotten a bee in their collective bonnets."

"Good for them."

Now Moratti, who had been looking on from beside his new companion, glanced at his watch. The earlier Panerai was gone tonight, switched for a much fancier MB&F HM4, and he squinted at the tiny dials.

"I think it's time I moved this party on a bit; if you will excuse us."

Taking Vanessa with him the Italian headed for the bar, stopping a moment to speak quietly with the house's chief steward, who had been just disappearing toward the kitchen. Half a minute later, his staff started subtly shuffling guests toward the lower level, whilst others circulated making sure each person had a drink provided for them.

Lifting two saucers of champagne from a passing tray, Jethro leaned down to hand one to his partner, bringing his head close to her ear in the process.

"So what do you think?"

"I think things just got a tad more complicated."

"May I have your attention please!"

Looking toward where the voice had come from, the Blackers found Moratti now stood at the top of the bar-area stairs, his guests arrayed around on the lower level. Though he held no microphone, his voice carried clearly across the space.

"First, I would like to thank you all for making the time to attend tonight. While, as most of you are probably aware, Moratti Tech's first steps toward the final frontier have been delayed by an act of The Almighty, I think we can all agree that the feat of getting just this far is certainly no lesser reason for celebration!"

The man paused for a second, letting that sink in. "Delivering _Mercurio_ has been a personal project of mine and I hope it can serve not only to further our endeavours as an organisation, but also to shine as an example of what can be achieved by people passionate in their cause…"

Listening for the spaces between words, Monty couldn't help but feel the Italian was not talking solely of his impending satellite launch. The language was as grandiose as the occasion could call for, and she had no doubt that part of him revelled in the prospect of imminent personal victory, but…

She let her eyes wander, and many of those heads she could see through the press of bodies were nodding along to this man's words, including at least a few of those whom she recognised from "suspected separatist" information packets. The contents of those same packets gave her no doubt that many of these men and women would be hard pressed to find legitimate reason to be here, legitimate reasons to be excited over Mercury's launch, and while she could not rule out their simply being happy for a friend, the dark cynic whom resided in her mind found that particular scenario difficult to swallow in isolation.

Whatever was on that bird, she wanted a look at it.

"...and so we arrive to here. To now. To this point in time. To the edge of a new age; one which promises new capabilities, provided by new technology and a step forward into new and exciting territory with fresh victories awaiting," the billionaire paused, and raised his own champagne saucer. "If I could ask you to charge your glasses? _Al Mercurio!_"

From the floor, for whatever reason their owners envisaged, a hundred glasses raised in reply.

"_Al Mercurio!"_

* * *

><p>Flicking a new code onto open suitcase's combination locks, Monty reached inside and pried away the carefully camouflaged panel in the back of its interior lining, revealing a small compartment wedged into the gap between the rails of its extendable handle. She and Jethro had objected, strongly, when the technology department put forward the idea, but The Agency had been adamant: it was <em>not<em> about to let a top-secret, multi-million euro weapons system and its minder go gallivanting around the planet completely unarmed. Now that it was installed, and as much as she hated to admit it, the heavily shielded space had come in handy time and time again. It wasn't by any means cavernous, barely able to fit the fratello's personal side arms and one silencer, but it was enough, and a small voice in the back of her head was grateful to be able to bring her own PPK along, rather than trust their lives to some less… familiar… weapon. Removing the firearm, she replaced the compartment's cover and dumped the few bits of clothing which had remained in the case back atop it before slapping the lid shut, spinning the combination off the locks as she did so.

Dropping her Walther's magazine out briefly to check it was loaded, she racked the slide, chambering the first round and flicked on the safety before dropping it into the pocket of her kimono, along with her phone. Draping a towel over one shoulder to help disguise the extra weight's pull on the fabric, she picked up her keycard and slipped out the door, sparing her handler a quick, reassuring smile on the way through.

Upstairs, the corridor was deserted. It was late now, late enough to be early in the morning and the party's revellers had long since departed, those who remained asleep or otherwise occupied in the guest rooms.

Walking toward the master suite at a quick trot, Monty was soon in sight of Moratti's door, and one of the two guards stationed there tonight held up a hand to stop her. Despite that, his expression was friendly as she approached. "I should warn you Miss, Mr. Moratti is in his room again, and this time has another guest."

The girl shot him a mischievous wink, "I promise to be quiet… he did say _anytime_."

If there was amusement in his expression the security man did a good job of hiding it, and shrugging, stood back slightly allowing her to slip close past him to the RFID reader.

As the pool door closed automatically behind, sealing her off from prying eyes, the young agent moved quickly down the stair, peering into Baldo's living room through its glass face. The lights were on, but no-one currently inhabited it, assumedly meaning he and his 'guest' were somewhere else, probably the bedroom; the door to which also remained securely closed. Feeling that was as good as she would get, Monty made her way silently to the observatory tower access.

Not knowing how long her isolation would last, time was on the essence and the girl worked quickly. Reaching under the RFID/keyboard combination, she quickly picked the lock of the small service panel which protected the USB port she had found the previous night and plugged one end of her iPhone cable into it. Extracting the mobile she attached it to the other end, then tapped on the icon for a simple platformer game. Navigating to its saved games screen, she typed in a code to the keypad and, as she hit the "done" button, the program's interface melted away, replaced by a new list of options. Selecting the second most recent entry, she held the device up to the RFID reader, allowing it to transmit the return signal she had lifted from the guard at the entrance.

On the lock's panel, a green light appeared, along with four spaces for her to input into. Now the phone's screen showed a "working" icon, and Monty offered up a prayer that this particular bit of electronic gimmickry would be as effective as her baggage's simple compartment. It was a quick, dirty and inelegant way of gaining entry, but right now expediency had to trump good practice, which didn't make her any less unhappy about it.

Thirty seconds later a set of four numbers flashed up on her iPhone's screen and she quickly transferred them to the keypad. From the door came the clack of heavy bolts withdrawing and, yanking the cable free, she covered up the port again. Checking the coast was clear, the spy slipped into the observatory tower proper.

Inside was as deserted and dark as the pool area she had just left, illuminated only by blinking LED lights nestled amongst tangled blue cabling behind sheets of protective glass. To her left was a short access tunnel leading to another entrance, and between her and it a bench built into the wall with a computer terminal on it. Around the rest of the room's circumference however stood banks and banks of server racks, with another circular, monolithic cabinet set at the middle of the space, one sector removed to allow access to its core.

Seemingly Moratti had gone the whole hog with his stylistic throwbacks.

Placing her mobile down on the table, Monty plugged the phone into the terminal's USB port, setting it to work finding a way in.

A minute passed, then another, and the girl resisted the urge to drum her fingers on the wood. Whatever Moratti had protecting his server apparently wasn't exactly bargain basement software, and previous experience said that if one of the SWA's hacking programs hadn't made an inroads after three minutes, then it probably wasn't getting in at all.

Suddenly the monitor changed, much to her relief showing a desktop interface, with a window already open for her to drag and drop data into her phone's memory. The servers were too large just to dump from, so she was going to need to go and find what she wanted the old fashioned way.

Fortunately, most large corporations had their systems set up by similarly trained consultants, so she had a rough idea where to start looking. Projects, hardware… R&D or commercial… there had to be some sort of directory, a document management system, even an excel spread sheet would help.

Her search only lasted a few minutes, but in the darkness it seemed like an eternity before the appropriate folder made its appearance. Spending another thirty seconds to verify the files were what she really wanted, the girl set them copying across onto her own device. Glancing at the progress bar she checked the remaining duration of the transfer, if she were caught here now…

Another clack of withdrawing bolts spun Monty around almost before she had time to consciously think about it, PPK withdrawing as she did so… only to find herself looking down the barrel of another black pistol.

"Well now, don't you just show up in the _oddest _of places?"

Monty kept her own gun levelled, "I guess this time it _is_ late enough in the year wish you a 'Mary Christmas'… _Vanessa_."

"I guess so."

"I would ask what you were doing here, but I doubt I'd get an answer. Moratti?"

"Sleeping off a busy night." Not relaxing her grip on the Glock 27 she held, the other woman eyed her opposite number. "I'll admit to being surprised at seeing you again, I figured in Monaco that you were just another _Blacker Girl_ along for the ride."

The cyborg's eyes narrowed.

"Oh don't look like that, I've read his file. _You_ on the other hand I have no clue on anymore, _Vesper_."

"Nice to know: it makes us slightly more even, _Mary_."

Silence. Out of the corner of her eye, Monty saw her data transfer finish and her free hand crept toward her phone.

Mary must have seen it as well, as she lowered her gun slightly. Not much, but slightly. "I think a Mexican standoff right at this moment is going to be counterproductive for the both of us, so I'll do you a deal: I won't interfere in your work, and you don't interfere in _mine_."

The cyborg's PPK remained trained on its target, "and what's to stop me just offing you here and now?"

"_Please._ I said I'd read your man's file… I _don't _think he'd partner up with anyone stupid enough to shoot a British agent; at least not whilst they were even _remotely_ able to be placed in the same general area, let alone in the same building."

_That was an interesting slip, assuming it was a slip at all. Unfortunately however..._

"You're right… and you have a deal." Not taking her eyes off the other spy, Monty reached down to unplug and pocket her mobile, dropping the computer back to its log-in screen as the connection was broken. "Servers are all yours."

The Glock lowered a bit further, "Thank you, now if you will excuse me, I'm adverse to people watching over my shoulder."

For the first time, the cyborg let her own gun drop slightly, but something in the other woman's tone was setting off alarm bells in the back of her head, the tone since the start of the evening in fact and she wished fervently for her handler's ability to read people…

"One question before I leave: when did you arrive in Monaco?"

"I don't think I need to answer that to you."

"Probably not. Good evening, _Ms. Christmas_."

"_Arrivederci_, Vesper."

Despite herself, as she walked out the door and closed it behind herself, Monty felt a chill run up her spine at those last words. Of course the choice could have been entirely co-incidental, but still: _Arrivederci_.

_Italian._

Pushing it from her mind, she focused on the task at hand. Dropping her kimono and towel, the girl did a quick lap of the pool, before drying off roughly and slipping back past the guards, using one hand to slick back her still damp hair as she did so.

It didn't take long to return to the fratello's room and, as her partner rose from the couch in greeting, she motioned with her head toward the bathroom. Taking the hint he followed her in, closing the door behind himself as she started to run a shower to cover their speech.

"Skipper, I think we may have a problem."

**TO BE CONTINUED  
><strong>


	8. CH08 Cosmic Girl

**AND THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction, based on works by Yu Aida._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 08|Cosmic Girl<strong>

Picking up the last suitcase from icy gravel and slotting it home into the boot of his borrowed Aston, Jethro turned to the fratello's host. "Cheers for putting us up."

Stood by the foot of Moonraker's front steps, Moratti gave a nonchalant flick of his hand, brushing off something of no consequence. "Think nothing of it; to be honest, organising these events, having someone around helps keep me sane."

"I can imagine."

From her own position at the DB9's passenger door, Monty ran her eye over the two men, then further back to where Mary, now wrapped in a white bathrobe, sheltered in the chalet's open doorway, taking advantage of the heat leaking from its interior as she watched proceedings. While she still had no idea what the other woman's agenda had been here, that was a face Monty would be keeping a particularly keen eye out for from now on, and a nagging voice said it would be one to appear again. In the meantime, it might not hurt to start quietly shaking a few branches to see what fell out.

"I'm sorry to bail on you so quickly..." her handler was talking again, "...but real life calls; we were pushing to stay back the extra day or so as was."

"I understand, but think about what you've seen and discussed."

"You can bank on it, ciao."

As Jethro settled behind the steering wheel and thumbed the Aston's big V12 to life, his girl took one last look around, then slipped into her own seat, closing the door with a solid thud to seal out the cold. Turning to her partner, she shot him a small smile.

"So where to now?"

"Not sure yet. I figure we can stop off in Interlaken or Lucerne and sort out the 'how to' part of 'get home' from there. If you want to make yourself useful, dig out a map and pick a few routes."

She nodded; in fact they knew exactly where they were going: the nearest airport. The car having been left unattended and in potential enemy hands for days though, any sort of detailed discussion would need to wait until it could be swept for snooping devices, and that meant being well beyond the sight of Moonraker or Grindelwald. One thing however was clear: if they were to stand a chance of intercepting Moratti's rocket groundside, getting airborne had to take top priority, and sorting out reasoning and research could wait until later.

As they gathered speed easily down the private access road, the girl reached back to retrieve her handler's iPad and start booking flights to French Guiana. Likely they'd need to go Paris via Zurich first, then on to the French _région d'outre-mer_ which, per her suspicions, was about to play havoc with transit times.

A hand on her leg made her glance up, and Jethro motioned at the side mirror. Using it to get her own look behind the British coupe, she could see a black Alfa Romeo 159 loping along further up the tarmac. Turing to her partner, she raised an eyebrow.

In way of answer the spy squeezed the throttle a bit more, picking up speed, not flat out but fast enough for someone enjoying a spirited drive on a good road, and the Alfa held its position. There was only one place it could have come from, and the pace he was carrying would have seen off anyone without a reason to remain glued to his tail. That was worrying. Should the saloon still be there after they entered Grindelwald and took a few back streets, he would need to do something about it.

Unfortunately working to shake a tail through town would be tantamount to admitting there was _reason_ to shake the tail in the first place; Grindelwald only had one main street, running along its length, and should have been impossible to get lost exiting. However, they also couldn't risk witnesses to the fratello's final destination.

Then again, Moratti already knew he was a car enthusiast…

_Mayhaps it was time to risk a speeding ticket rather than play backstreet games._

Turning right out of Moonraker's access into light holiday traffic, the spy pootled along just on the speed limit, black Alfa shadowing each wheel turn a few cars behind. Idling between the town's buildings, he reached forward to disengage the Aston's traction control and beside him, Monty took the hint, slotting the iPad away to leave both hands free. As the last house slid past and the route bled into that to Interlaken, he knocked the car into manual and nailed the accelerator.

There was a pause, only for an instant, as the engine's computer brain caught up with recent events then, from the big V12 it controlled erupted a bellow of freedom and the DB9 thundered off down the mountain road. A second later the trailing 159 jinxed out from behind the car it was following and gave chase, adding a throaty Italian yowl to the echoing landscape.

_Well that answered that question._

Taking advantage of the long, sweeping asphalt upper sections Jethro kept his foot in, feeling the big GT squirm on winter tread blocks. Cubic inches were however making a difference in this open stage and their pursuer fell further behind on the icy road, though not as quickly as the Englishman would have liked. He probably shouldn't have been surprised that their tail would be one of the powerful, all wheel drive models, but that was going to make life more interesting when they hit the twists further down.

Fortunately he wasn't out of tricks just yet.

For now though he guided his vehicle from tightening bend to tightening bend, riding the limit of what grip the cold road could offer up. Further back the Alfa held its distance, simple physics finally having negated its British quarry's power advantage, eighteen strained cylinders adding their roaring chorus to the mountain air.

Ahead the tarmac started to wind itself further into knots and despite the handler's best efforts his pursuer started to gain ground. Things were going to get worse before they got better too, but if memory served there were two switchbacks further up, then the road straightened out into supercar territory again. If he could just carry enough speed through those bends...

_The game most certainly was not over yet._

The complex arrived, jinxing away from under the flying chase. Unsettling his steed's tail, Jethro flung the Aston around the bucking black ribbon, haring up the short linking straight to the next bend, rear tyres scrabbling for grip. As winter rubber finally found purchase the car flicked the other direction, the spy using the momentum to trim its line and send it sailing through the second hairpin. Clearing the exit the road wiggled slightly, before opening out to where the Brit could deploy every single one of the 470 horses available to him.

Behind, the Alfa exited the last turn in a long four wheel drift and gave chase, falling further back as the Aston rocketed away. Checking his rear-view mirror, Jethro looked hard at the gap, it may just be enough.

A fast left and yump lifted the car off its suspension, forcing its driver to grab a handful of opposite lock as they rounded a small rise, topography hiding the T-intersection ahead from their pursuers as a sign flashed past; right for Interlaken, left for the mountain hamlet of Lauterbrunnen. Offering up a quick prayer, Jethro lifted briefly to key the nose in and jinxed left, spraying gravel from spinning wheels and rabbitting back up into the mountains around another concealing bend. With a little luck the tail would assume he would head for Interlaken and freedom, rather than to another town and dead end. From here the road down to the lakes hugged near vertical rock tightly, and by the time the Alfa's driver found a straightway long enough to realise his quarry had gone the other way, the fratello should have been able to go to ground. Finding a roughly graded forestry track, the handler wrenched his loaner from the asphalt, wincing as carbon fibre grazed frozen earth, wide tyres kicking up stones and dirt to ping off pristine body work.

Pulling up behind a concealing stand of pines, he left the engine idling as Monty leapt from her door and ran back to where she could covertly keep an eye on passing traffic. Undoing his own seatbelt, her partner started to go through the car from nose to tail, checking under carpets, in air-vents, behind electronics boxes and feeling inside interior trim. Five minutes later he found what he was looking for.

That though he kept silent about as his girl came trotting back, letting her set about her own search as a double check. That proved thankfully fruitless and, feeling more assured they were clean, Jethro held the little plastic and wire bug up for inspection, then hurled it unceremoniously, deep into the trees.

Safely back behind closed doors, Monty turned to her partner as he pointed them back toward sealed tarmac. "Our friend has just headed back up to Lauterbrunnen."

"Well then lets hope they're willing to spend the next few hours turning the place upside down; what say we put that time to good use?"

"Zurich, Skipper."

"Miles ahead of you, though I can't help but think Ferro'll be a bit miffed about having to make the trip up again..."

In way of reply, Monty retrieved the iPad, returning to trawl the internet for flights as her handler accelerated back toward Interlaken, their loaner Aston loping away at saner, touring, speeds.

* * *

><p>"I had the impression Air France were doing something about their Business Class..."<p>

Reaching over in the darkened cabin, Jethro gave his girl's knee a squeeze. Though the airline's accommodations had come forward by leaps and bounds, this particular Airbus had not been one to benefit from the refit. Apparently the Guiana route was where aeroplanes went before being put out to pasture, as evidenced by the decidedly aged seats he and his partner now resided in.

Leaning across the centre armrest he brought his head close to hers. "I'm just glad you managed to grab the last couple of business class places on short notice. It looks like being a sleepless couple of days and I was _not_ feeling entirely enamoured about adding an economy passage on the front end."

"Sleepless is one way to put it; we'll need to high-tail it up from the airport to Guiana Spaceport if we're going to make their afternoon tour."

"Flights back?"

"For the day prior to launch, through Paris again."

"What are you looking at now then?"

Twisting her computer slightly, away from the aisle so her partner could see, the girl zoomed out of the PDF document which was visible on screen. "Drawings for Mercury off'f Moratti's server; I think we can safely say there's a bit more than comms gear packed into there."

"Throw them here."

She held out her hand, "tablet."

Waiting patiently until she finished transferring the drawings onto his iPad, the spy took it back and found a general arrangement to familiarise himself with Mercury's layout. Monty had been right; much of what it contained didn't look anything like communications technology, though what _was_ occupied the rear two thirds of the satellite. The bird itself was roughly an elongated box shape, with solar panels tucked up next to its long sides waiting to unfurl into glistening wings on command. On the two sides not dedicated to power were masts mounting large dish antennas, also tucked away awaiting deployment.

Of more interest however were the optics embedded in the top end of the satellite's body, those certainly were not part of a communications suite; no wonder Moratti needed an Ariane to throw the thing up into orbit. Flicking to the next page, Jethro carefully studied the detail drawing displayed there.

As if reading his mind, Monty pipped up quietly, "The problem here is that we need a catastrophic failure, without being detected during pre-launch checks."

"And destroying the rocket itself isn't going to do the EU economy much good."

"Somehow I doubt it, Arianespace is too good of an earner," she paused. "If you're happy to go through those drawings though, I'll start on the Ariane Users' Manual."

"They actually make one of those?"

She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, massaging tired eyes. "Sort of, it's more a 'how to' for the corporates Arianespace contracts to, mixed in with a load of marketing gaff... freely available off their website. The basics are there though, and it might throw up some options."

"Well, you can have two hours with it, then you're going to get some shut eye."

The girl cocked an eyebrow. "I think it would be better if we knew as much as possible before landing."

"Which, believe it or not,_ I_ am capable of handling without constant adult supervision. You however have a late night coming up... I get to play a bit earlier, but _your_ chances of sleeping in the twenty-four hours after we hit tarmac are basically zero."

"And what about _you_?" The question was deadpan.

"You know that one you always pull on me? 'I'll sleep in the car'?"

Monty's expression became suspicious. "_Mmmhmm..."_

"I'll sleep in the car."

* * *

><p>As far as the grand scheme of culture shocks went, stepping from the plush leather and wood slathered interior of Michele Pagani's V12 Aston Martin into a rental, diesel Toyota Prado was pretty up there... velour upholstery and all. Pulling out of a side turning, Jethro ran the unturboed engine up its narrow power band before finding the next gear to let the grumbling 4WD continue gathering momentum. It really was the only way to describe the action, "accelerate" would suggest some form of demonstrable motive force. That demanding power train, mixed with cheap interior plastics and poor sound insulation had unfortunately made for a particularly taxing trip from Cayenne airport to Kourou, then further north on to here. One of these days he was going to find a way around that "or similar" clause.<p>

In the seat next to him, Monty looked up from the satellite drawings she had been again perusing. "Going by that you have marked up; either guidance hardware or killing power to the intelligence gathering package..."

Her handler took a second to change mental gears. "One of those, yes."

Looking down the girl again studied the PDF files, massaging at her upper arm in thought. "Power would be easier and more likely to shut the thing down, but shorting one of the concealed boards is going to be more difficult for someone to spot."

"How about keeping both in mind?"

"That was the thinking," the massaging hand moved to pinch the bridge of her nose. "I'll try for the intelligence package, but... I'll keep looking."

"Save it for later, we're here."

Running one last eye over the satellite drawings, Monty closed the file down and turned her computer off, lowering its lid. The problem was that they just didn't have enough time to get a detailed handle on what lay ahead, and considering this particular territory was even less well charted than usual… she felt like one grasping at straws blowing in the wind. With no time to sort them into some semblance of order, she could but glance at each fragment as it flashed through her fingers before stuffing it away with its previously captured compatriots, in the hope that together they may eventually form a cohesive whole. Sighing, the girl turned her attention out the windscreen to take in the view; it wouldn't do for her to arrive without showing even a _little_ interest.

She had to admit the sight ahead was _reasonably_ impressive, even in light of the leviathan landscape the fratello had abandoned just a day earlier. At the end of the straight road could be seen a skeletal metal globe, surrounded by high poles, each sporting the flag of a member of the ESA community, the effect slightly ruined by a hodgepodge of out of date looking brick buildings backstopping the scene. To the right however, towering above the jungle lining each side of the tarmac was the white bulk of a full size Ariane 5 launcher, leaving no visitor in doubt as to where they were arriving: CSG, the _Centre Spatial Guyanais_, primary launch site of the European Space Agency.

Finding a carpark facing the _Musee de l'Espace_, the fratello stepped out into hot, humid air. The centre had originally been created in the mid-60's as the sole dominion of France, taking advantage of its _région d'outre-mer's _equatorial location. In 1975 with the formation of a Europe wide space agency, the French had offered to share their facility, and ESA had been more than happy to take the extra lift capacity the site would offer with both hands; even if it did mean also putting up with a sticky, tropical climate.

Stepping around the front of the Prado, Monty undid another couple of buttons from her pristine white shirt, shaking the fabric out, while Jethro locked the four wheel drive.

"We were lucky to get in this afternoon," said the girl quietly as her partner joined her. "ESA's tours normally ask a few more days advance booking."

"Good thing I've got you then."

"I may have needed to invoke Alstrom's name."

Jethro, reached out to give her shoulder a squeeze then looked around. "Do you know where this thing leaves from?"

"How about you go ask the _Information desk?_"

"But that's what I have you for."

Taking station beside her handler, the cyborg slung the large camera she carried over a shoulder and studied her surroundings from behind dark sunglasses. The _Musee de l'Espace_ was impossible to miss, its name signed in large black letters across the carpark facing wall. That made the building behind it, as she had gleaned from the Ariane guide, Jupiter Control: ESA's primary mission control facility, backed up by the smaller, heavily armoured Launch Control further north toward the action. Beyond Jupiter rested one of the payload processing facilities, allowing customers to check and complete assembling their birds onsite after transport. Unfortunately, though the latter information was nice to know, Mercury was well beyond that stage of its launch campaign. With that thought she looked out to her left, past the huge Ariane 5 model stood guard over the entrance to the buildings, down range of which, somewhere far out of sight, a real version of that lifeless mockup was waiting to be rolled from its protective assembly building to the launch pad.

Walking from scorching carpark asphalt onto grass, now luxuriously green after the weather which had so hindered Moratti's original launch window, the Blackers made their way toward the shaded gap between the Space Museum and Jupiter. Set back under the former's overhanging upper levels they found the cream and red panelled public information counter, where a French speaking local was able to check their names and passports against a register, then direct them to where that afternoon's tour would be leaving from.

Handing two passes through the window, the woman looked the pair up and down. "The tour starts at thirteen-fifteen, refreshments are available inside if you wish."

Jethro nodded his thanks, then glanced at his watch, "Guess we've half an hour or so to kill."

Resting a hand gently between her shoulder blades, the spy guided his partner along the steep entrance steps and through a set of swinging glass doors to the café located at the Museum's front. It wasn't a large affair, but the fratello were able to find a secluded table crammed up into a corner, their voices lost amongst sight seers and employees sharing the space.

Taking a sip of her ice tea, Monty stared out, past the café's patrons and over the grounds, again massaging at her bullet wound, now hidden by a loosely rolled shirt sleeve. If the action seemed absent minded however, her face was brooding.

Watching across their drinks, Jethro hesitated for a moment then, reaching over, gently took hold of the massaging hand and placed it back on the table. The girl grimaced as she realised what she had been doing, and her head swung to look at him.

"What's got you so pensive?"

She paused slightly. "Nothing important right now."

"Because you always think so hard on 'not important' things, spit it out."

His partner paused again, possibly collecting her thoughts and the spy used the opportunity to spin his chair around so he could reverse his position on it, leaning on its back at the same time to bring his face more intimately close.

"So?"

Monty gave a little sigh. "Mary... Switzerland… and I've absolutely _no_ clue what she was set out to achieve there."

Jethro shrugged, but the noncommittal gesture was at odds with the expression that passed across his own face. "Your guess is as good as mine luv, but we ran into her in Monaco, then crossed paths again in Alexandria and now Moonraker; and you know what they say about third times…"

"…so we assume whatever she _is_ up to, there's a high probability it doesn't align with our own interests."

"That would be the safe assumption until proven otherwise."

The girl took another sip of her drink. "So far she's turned up at three fairly major turning points for us. The last is a bit more difficult, being as it's unrelated to the previous two insofar as we know… but her cover has her sniffing around _Marritima_ as well."

"Could be its just coincidence?"

"_You_ were the one started quoting Moscow Rules, not me… and I honestly doubt you believe that."

"We've been together too long..." the hander nudged back the sleeve of his suit jacket to glance at his watch. "Push it from your mind though, time for the job at hand, here and now."

"I can't help but feel that Mary _is_ more part of the job at hand than we've yet realised."

Standing, Jethro spun his chair around so it faced back toward the table and, polishing off her tea, Monty joined him, allowing herself to again be guided lightly out of the cafe by his touch. Trotting together down the steps, the Blackers crossed to where a small crowd was starting to gather. The group wasn't large and Monty studied those with whom she would be sharing the next few hours. Fortunately the European Space Agency banned children under eight years old from its grounds, a move she considered to be one of genius; however that hadn't prevented an American family from bringing a gaggle of brats who could have only just scraped past the age guideline, one of which now pointed her way.

"She's hot!"

A couple of heads turned, but most were at least bright enough to mind their own business, and she glared at the child, which returned her look with a defiant expression. Unfortunately human eyes weren't up to the task of staring down a cyborg, and eventually it was forced to turn away. Catching the exchange, Jethro put an arm around his girl and gave her shoulder a quick "bear with it" squeeze.

The rest of the party was made up of two other couples, in both cases one half looking significantly more excited than the other, and a group of men whom she could only assume to be on holiday, or undertaking a similar business trip detour as that which she and her handler were using for cover.

As the young agent finished her perusal, a uniformed local man joined them.

"Welcome to the _Centre Spatial Guyanias_, Europe's Spaceport!" he said in accented French. "I am Mathieu, your guide today."

From somewhere in the crowd came a rude mutter over the choice of language, but Mathieu either didn't hear, didn't understand or chose to ignore it. "If you would care to follow me, this afternoon's tour will commence in _le Musee de l'Espace_, with a film about the CSG itself. We will then visit Jupiter Control and finally travel north to Ariane 5's facilities. While the model behind you is full size..." he gestured to the towering mock up, "...we are lucky enough have a completed launch vehicle in the centre, available for viewing at the end of our tour. Now, if you will follow me?"

The guide started toward the museum doors, talking to a broad rundown on the space centre and the area of French Guiana in which it resided. Letting the tourists push through first, Jethro and Monty tagged themselves onto the back of the crowd as it filed into the building, past displays and to a small cinema. Staying in kind, the fratello took seats toward the rear of the darkened room.

"Are they going to make out!?"

Sighing slightly, Monty gave her partner a flat look and cocked an eyebrow. "Do you think they have gaffer tape around here somewhere?"

"Probably, keep an eye out."

While he didn't intend to vocalise the thought lest someone overhear, the spy didn't mind the loud childish remarks. Now with a bit of luck, that idea would worm its way into the heads of the other tour members, for them to explain away to themselves as to why he and his girl were hanging toward the back of the pack.

As the lights dimmed, he lifted the seat divider and slipped an arm around her.

Soon the French voice over started, with subtitles in English. Allowing that to mask his own low words, Jethro tilted his head down. "Any thoughts on how to get in?"

His partner didn't take her eyes from the screen. "If you believe Google, there's a little back track through the jungle which hits _Route de l'Espace_ between the Soyuz facilities and spaceport proper. It's on public land, so if you drop me there I could probably come in near the Ariane 4 facilities on the western perimeter, jump the fence then try to hitch a lift with something going past. It looks like there's a bit more foliage inside the wire, but if we can eyeball it during the tour, so much the better. How about you; do you need anything from me?"

"Shouldn't think so, just try and prevent anyone from missing me."

An hour later, and now slightly better informed about Europe's space effort, the fratello exited the cinema amongst the other tour guests. Doing a quick head count to make sure all his charges were present and accounted for, Mathieu herded them off toward Jupiter Control and, tagging along at the back again, Monty pulled a small grimace: what they didn't need right now was an attentive chaperone.

Crossing the wide breezeway between Museum and Mission Control buildings, the group filed back into air conditioning and past the security check point at Jupiter's entrance, allowing the gendarme there to recheck their identification. Handing over his passport for perusal, Jethro noted the couple of CCTV camera views on one the station's computer monitors, as well as the full size SIG pistol the man carried.

Satisfied, the guard handed the passport back, and with the final person on the tour now checked off, their guide directed them on again toward a set of stairs across linoleum flooring. Those led upwards, to some complaint from the less fit of the party, eventually depositing them into a large, glass fronted seating gallery, overlooking banks of computer stations in the room below. Dead centre of the darkened upper deck stood a small model of an Ariane 5 and, on the wall at the front of the control centre, large sport-stadium style screens kept those VIPs sat here informed of what was going on below and at the launch site proper.

Directing his charges past a row of round, chrome-fronted lights, adding points of interest to the otherwise dimly illuminated space from their position set into the wall, Mathieu gave a moment to let the scene sink in.

_Someone obviously didn't forget that space was most exciting in the 1960's here either._

Just as the man was about to start speaking, Jethro held up a finger, "Umm, sorry to interrupt but… little boy's room?"

There was a visible sigh. "Back downstairs, then to the right."

"Ta."

"I need to go too!"

_This was why he didn't like children._

The same loud child was pulling at its father's shirt and its mother turned to her husband. "Go with him."

"I don't wanna miss..."

Unfortunately the rest of the protest apparently fell on deaf ears, and the tourist was soon following his British companion back down the stairs, son in tow. Turning in front of the guard station, Jethro kept an ear out for his trailers as the gendarme helpfully pointed out in which direction their destination lay.

The men's room was not difficult to find, though deep blue tile floors, and urinal cisterns mounted high with a pull chain rather than concealed behind gyprock, belied its age. Taking a position at one of the stations, Jethro heard an "I'll wait out here" from the corridor, followed by footsteps and the sound of a cubicle door closing behind him. Finishing his business, the agent glanced at the cisterns again, and a quick smile flashed across his features; there may just be a way to turn this to his advantage after all.

Pulling the flush, using the noise to cover himself, the handler lifted the top from the tank above and reached inside. Pushing across hard he jammed its float in place, preventing it from rising with the water filling the reservoir, then carefully replaced the lid and went to wash his hands. Taking the time to do the job properly, he was just stepping out the door again when the inevitable shout finally went up.

"The bathroom's flooding! Cool!"

Jethro glanced at the American still waiting in the hall, meeting the man's eyes and keeping his expression admirably neutral, then both men rushed back inside to where water was gushing from the sabotaged cistern, cascading onto the floor.

"What the fuck did you do boy!"

"I didn't do anything!"

Switching to his own best dismayed face, Jethro looked at his compatriots. "Oh bloody… you two stay here, I'll get the guard."

Without waiting to see if he received a reply, the Brit turned away as the argument behind him started up again.

Walking quickly down the control centre concourse he made his way to where the gendarme was still seated. "Umm, I think your toilet's flooding."

The man looked at him in confusion, and he switched to French. _"Err… les toilettes sont des inondations?"_

The confused expression remained, if only for a second, then the guard let loose something foul in his native tongue, before standing.

"I'll ask the tour group to hold," put in the spy helpfully, and his opposite nodded, before swiping his ID card and hitting a button to lock the front door. Building secured, the man hurried away toward rising voices.

Making sure the guard had disappeared from sight around the curve on the concourse, Jethro fiddled with his shirt sleeve briefly, removing one of the small USB drives hidden in his cufflinks. Stretching down behind the station counter, he plugged it into a free computer port, where it started rapidly uploading into the space centre's networked CCTV system a small computer program, known affectionately to the boffins who created it as _Auto Ella_.

"Ella" wasn't a malicious program, it wouldn't wipe data or scramble systems, and it would lie dormant until the server's internal clock triggered it that evening. When it did however, it would start buffering a five second segment of footage from each camera in the network, feeding it to the monitors half a second off real time, which didn't mean much unless its second function was triggered. Built into the software was a complex recognition system, and the moment either of the Blacker fratello came into view, _Ella_ would start to loop its buffered recording, making them all but invisible to watching electronic eyes.

The system of course wasn't perfect, far from it in fact. If the loop cut in or out at an inopportune moment it would be all too easy to spot, and in order to function it needed to carry a huge amount of facial and anthropometric data for the people it was filtering out: everything a rival agency would need to see through almost any disguise. In an attempt to combat that, Ella would wipe itself from the system after a set time period, but the risk presented was still far greater than either Jethro or Monty would have been willing to accept under normal circumstances. Unfortunately, this particular job needed to be done quick and dirty, with whatever safety net they could get, no matter how poorly constructed… and beggars did not have the luxury of being choosers.

Soon the drive's little concealed light ceased blinking, and the spy extracted it from the computer, replacing it in his cuff, before heading up stairs to do exactly as he had promised and hold the tour.

Five minutes later they were joined again by the American man and his son. Above the child's enthusiastic retelling of the excitement downstairs, Jethro turned to its father. "So did they find the problem?"

"Yeah, cistern broke, cheap Euro crap… eer no offence intended."

"None taken," replied the Brit levelly, putting on his best conciliatory grin. "I assume it's fixed now?"

"Naw, they turned the water off but it's gonna need a plumber, thing's totally busted."

Returning from the observation gallery's front rail where she had been taking photos, Monty slung her camera back over a shoulder and slipped in under her handler's arm.

"She yours?"

"Yes, my niece…" Jethro glanced at his cyborg. "…her parents aren't with us anymore so she travels with me on business. It's not a perfect arrangement but…"

"…we make it work," finished the girl, "and it certainly beats boarding school."

"_Huh."_

Before anything else could be said, Mathieu started waving from by the rocket model, calling for his group's returned attention. "Are there any questions about Jupiter Control? No? Then if you would like to come this way, we will board the bus to Ariane's facilities."

Traipsing back to ground level, the tour party exited back past the gendarme, who gave Jethro a quick nod as the Englishman left, brushing past a cleaner headed the other direction with a cart full of mops and rags. Sticky heat washed over the group as it stepped outside again, and skin which had dried out in the climate controlled environment was rapidly glistening with perspiration again, moisture unable to evaporate into heavy air. Eager for relief, the small crowd flowed quickly over scalding asphalt toward a white minibus stationed in the carpark, engine already idling and a small puddle of condensation forming between its wheels.

Manoeuvring his partner onto the vehicle first, Jethro steered her ahead so she would need to take a window rather than the protective aisle, in keeping with their cover if not her personal taste. Selecting a pair of seats at the back of the Mitsubishi Fuso, the Blackers watched the buildings of the spaceport's public and administration areas melt away as they accelerated toward the launcher assembly and preparation facilities.

The road itself, explained to be _Route de l'Espace_, ran dead straight behind the coastline, with little to look at on its northwest journey bar jungle and grassland until the tall, white structures of the Ariane and Vega rocket facilities breached the horizon. Pulling up at a security checkpoint on the eastern side of the complex, the bus's occupants waited for a covered truck in front to be waved through, before having their passports again inspected by a surly complexioned Legionnaire of the 3rd Foreign Infantry Regiment. Beside the checkpoint's boom gate stood a second solider, FAMAS rifle slung casually but conspicuously across his chest. That fact wasn't lost on the bus's juvenile contingent either, whom stared out the window at the weapon as the gate rose and their vehicle passed through the spaceport's razor wire topped, chain-link fence.

Trundling past, Monty took note of the rough, muddy vehicle track which disappeared along the security perimeter in either direction and locked it away in her memory. Assumedly it would be patrolled day and night; anyone paranoid enough to sandbag their checkpoints wouldn't _not_, and she would need to look out for that.

Driving a short distance along the entry road, the Fuso turned left, skipping past the monolithic final assembly building to link up with an asphalted transport corridor running south. The course gave the Blackers, seated as they were, an excellent view across rutted grass to the facility proper, foregrounded by the launcher integration building's tall bulk, under the massive doors of which this road disappeared. Picking up her camera, Monty fired off a few shots, careful to catch the far western entrance she intended to use in-frame as well.

"Just passed are the buildings in which the final stages of Ariane 5's launcher campaign take place. Beyond those to your right stand the old Ariane 4 facilities, Vega buildings and the road to our Soyuz launch site," started Mathieu, as if reading their minds. "While Ariane is CSG's heavy lifter, Vega offers a more cost effective method to get smaller payloads into low earth orbit and, since it was added to the ESA family, Soyuz presents a proven and ultra-reliable means by which to take that same equipment to a geostationary transfer orbit. We however, will be touring Ariane, starting with its booster integration building. The booster facility lies further south, away from the rest of the complex and close to the solid propellant production plants..."

The building itself proved to be empty; manufacturing company Astrium not yet ready to put its next launcher in the pipeline. However the fratello and most of the tour group listened intently to their guide's information, Monty continuing a pattern by snapping a few more photos of the interior and surrounds as she left. While she didn't intend to come this far south at all, it wouldn't hurt to spend a bit of time studying what was here… lest Murphy decide to step in.

Having re-embarked the tour bus, that vehicle headed back the way it had come, following the rocket assembly line. Not stopping at the propellant store for fairly blatant and obvious safety reasons, their next stop was Astrium's launcher integration building; which was explained to be where the manufacturer joined Ariane's main cryogenic stage to the solid fuel boosters. Though impressive with its squeaky clean floors and multiple mobile gantries, it was another stop at which the Blackers found the bulk of their interest lay outside. From the hardstand in front of the personnel access, Monty managed to get a few more shots west, past the Vega facilities and hardened bunker of Launch Control, toward her intended ingress point.

The tour's final stop however, just to the south east, held significantly more promise. Disembarking the Mitsubishi, the girl turned her eyes and camera directly north where, almost three kilometres distant, spindly lightning rods marked the Ariane 5 launch pad, butted up against the spaceport's northern exterior fence. To one side of the slender metal lattices stood the massive services tower and, further removed again; the pad water tower, to be emptied at blast off, dulling each rocket's violent beginning of its journey.

Content she had captured all she could from here, Monty gave her attention to today's main event: the tall, white building which stood just meters away, the _Bâtiment d'Assemblage Final_, or BAF. The final assembly building in which Moratti's Mercurybird now slumbered atop its multi-million euro perch.

Construction joints and weathered paint broke up otherwise flat and featureless walls towering up over her head, belying the complexity of what they protected behind carefully poured concrete. Taking another photo the cyborg ran a finer eye over what she could see, checking for cameras or sensors hiding in the shadows under eaves. Walking closer she let her focus run lower as she followed the rest of the tour inside trailed by her handler, such that when she passed through the BAF outer door into cool, dry, conditioned air, she was checking the ground level lock.

That didn't look like it would offer much resistance, though the CCTV pickup trained on it could be more of an issue. Even with Ella there as backup, it was only a safety net, not something to be relied upon and she did not like being caught in the cold regard of those unblinking electronic eyes. Walking into their field of view would require caution on her part… assuming a better entrance did not present itself of course.

"Make sure to close the door, we don't want any of the local wildlife taking a journey into space," started Mathieu with a toothy grin as the crowd passed through the inner access and gathered again in a tight, narrow space between metal walls. Glancing down as they were herded up a set of stairs attached to one side of the steel chasm, Monty could see metal tracks, cast into the concrete below and running out under the panels opposite.

"Today we are lucky enough to have a full Ariane awaiting launch. Normally under these circumstances this area would remain closed to public visitation, but as the payload has already been assembled into its equipment bay, the risk of contamination is low enough that its owners have kindly allowed us to enter the building. The umbilical mast behind you carries services to keep Ariane alive until it can be launched and forms part of the rolling launch table on which we now stand…"

As he kept talking, the cyborg continued to study her surroundings. The stairs passed a portaled door set into the metal beside her as they ascended, though the interior was too dimly lit to see past the reflections on the outer glass without appearing overly nosey...

…which didn't prevent her handler from pressing his face up against the glass, using his hands to block out the light. Stopping with him she gave a small, exasperated sigh, waiting with the thinly veneered patience of a parent saddled by a beloved but especially errant child.

Shortly he broke away again, bending down to give her buttocks a slight push toward where the stairs continued their upward journey in pursuit of the rest of the group. "Looks like a monitoring and inspection point for the mast services."

Like Astrium's facility, this one belonging to Arianespace was squeaky clean and, if she was going to take a guess, probably slightly positive pressured. Keeping such a large, open area that spotless was an impressive feat. Unfortunately the staff's diligence went unnoticed as the towering white bulk of an Ariane 5 crept into view over the top of the stairs, drawing eyes inexorably upwards toward its peak. The massive rocket lay bare and exposed under lights, tapering away toward some imaginary vanishing point until support clamps and gantries closed around it just above the boosters' tips, hiding the rest from view. A decapitated giant, still caught in the guillotine's stocks.

Surrounded as it was by walkways and umbilicals, getting a handle on its full dimensions beyond there proved difficult. However, Monty wasn't going to complain about the arrangement, and she happily fired off shot after shot from her Canon, capturing everything visible. She wasn't the only one either, as synthesised sounds of phone cameras and beeps of digital point and shoots filled the otherwise silent space. Amongst it all she turned to get another image of the beige-hued tower behind her.

According to the launcher campaign as described on the CSG website, there were two observation windows and two service hatches which would give her access into the rocket's equipment bay, and thereby to Mercury, currently obscured from sight. Making use of the full 105mm zoom allowed her by the camera's stock lens, the cyborg focused in as best she could on that area. The platform which encircled the cowling was decked with solid plate, assumedly placed level with those hatches, and plenty of yellow painted steelwork ran up the back wall to get her there should more conventional means of ascent prove unserviceable.

Availing herself of the wide, open area atop the launch table which the tour group occupied, the young agent found another angle to study her target from. One thing which was becoming noticeable as her focus started to broaden was how quiet and empty the building was. It would have seemed more befitting for it to be a hive of activity, personnel rushing around like white coated, clipboard wielding ants, scurrying back and forth making sure everything was in order, checking and re-checking; the silent tomb in which she now stood somehow seemed... wrong.

_The weather delay, of course._

A three day holdup to operations had probably left the project staff very little left to do bar last minute checks and twiddle their thumbs; though she certainly was not about to count on things remaining quiet for the next twenty-four hours. That said, and again if the literature were to be believed, those checks mostly took place after the vehicle rolled out the massive doors behind her to its launch site.

Re-joining her partner, Monty allowed him to slip an arm around her shoulders as Mathieu asked if there were any more questions, before directing the group back out to their waiting bus.

* * *

><p>Crouched in thick, tropical undergrowth, Monty instinctively shrunk back as the clank of swap treads accompanied the glow of approaching lights, just below the far rise. Night had descended over South America's east coast and, with the darkness, the Blackers had ventured forth, travelling far inland from Kourou in order to skirt around the <em>Centre Spatial Guyanias<em>, then following a graded but unsealed jungle track up toward its western boundary. Stopping short of where that intersected the road between the spaceport's separated Vega/Ariane and newer Soyuz facilities, Jethro had dropped his girl off, before retreating back a safe couple of clicks lest their large, white four wheel drive draw unwanted attention. From there, it had taken her a good couple of hours to hack a course through dense vegetation to a creek running roughly parallel to the centre's boundary fence, then south along that's bed to her current position, just opposite another small thicket on the secure side of the wire.

Between it and her however lay open ground, traversed by the rough, muddy track used by French Foreign Legionnaires patrolling the perimeter in _Bandvagn_ low ground-pressure vehicles. Beyond that, atop an embankment, lay the high construction of chain link and razor wire which formed the CSG's first line of defence. To her left, across the road to Soyuz and inside the compound, she could see the abandoned Ariane 4 buildings, occasional lights burning in the office blocks not yet vacated for lack of funding. Further to the north lay more lights, twinkling against inky darkness, belonging to the Vega area and beyond those, the open, floodlit Ariane 5 launch pad.

None were somewhere she particularly wished to end up. Where she _did_ want to go lay almost directly in front of her, the top of its tall structure visible above trees and fencing, the _Bâtiment d'Assemblage Final_.

_The trick of course would be getting there to begin with_.

Now the clank of treads rose louder, and the girl watched cautiously as a Legion vehicle crested the rise to her right, trundling ever closer, powerful headlamps illuminating red earth ahead of it like day. Fortunately, despite previously haven proven a frustration to nocturnal travel, the undergrowth here was dense, and Monty's charcoal outfit did a good job of blending her into the shadows. In all reality she had waited far too long, but unfortunately the Blackers' timeframe had not allowed the luxury of proper preparation; like timing patrols. Instead, both she and her handler had agreed their best bet would be for her to wait until a patrol went through, then attempt an incursion; in the largest window between passes they could possibly create.

The next problem from there of course would be getting from the far stand of trees, across the open land of the spaceport to the BAF, but that was a problem for the future, one bridge at a time for now.

Rising to a mechanical crescendo, the _Bandvagn_ clattered by, and as it dropped out of sight into the next easy gully, Monty was up and scrambling across its muddy wake. Making it to the fence she quickly looked both ways for assurance she remained unseen. So far, everything seemed so good and, moving back a few steps, the cyborg mustered her artificial strength to hurl herself over the top of the razor wire. Landing on the other side she kept upright rather than rolling, it would not do to leave muddy marks all over the rocket she was supposed to be covertly sabotaging, and sprinted again for the trees.

Pushing again through undergrowth she fought her way to the thicket's northern edge, where it butted up against the asphalt of _Route de l'Espace_. Down the road to her left stood a guard hut at the fence line, keeping watch over the track to Soyuz. To her right was launch control's bunker and, further on, the Ariane 5 Launcher Integration Facility. Somewhere behind the latter, a good half kilometre from the main road, was her final destination: the BAF. Unfortunately that made it too far to risk a foot journey over the exposed ground inside the centre campus. However, the Soyuz facility was still fully active, and people and goods had to be travelling to and from it _somehow_. She just had to hope someone would still be making the trip at this hour.

Nudging back the sleeve of her charcoal top she glanced at her watch in the moonlight: 2am, she was already pushing into the early morning of pre-launch day, cutting things far too close for comfort. In the next few hours the Ariane 5 carrying Moratti's satellite would roll out to the launch site for final checks and filling of its cryogenic main stage; and once it was there her chances of accessing the bird would be almost exactly nil.

_Which meant she would want a plan B, just in case._

Across the road and just to her right loomed the darkened bulk of the decommissioned Ariane 4 integration facilities. Satellite photos showed the dilapidated complex stretching, albeit somewhat haphazardly, almost as far as the current launcher preparation buildings. As long as she could avoid the few still inhabited offices, it might offer cover far enough to find a culvert through which she could scramble across the road to Ariane 5 undetected. The plan wouldn't be perfect, and a trip down muddy concrete pipes was going to leave her at risk of leaving dirty marks all over Arianespace's nice clean floor, but it beat the alternative of not arriving at all. She could probably afford half an hour waiting here but then...

Monty's ears pricked up as, from the west, her acute hearing singled out the sound of an approaching diesel engine.

_...assuming something didn't come along to save her the trouble_

Freezing in place, the cyborg strained to make out what was going on at the guard station. Above the faint idling engine someone laughed, then a rev and whatever the vehicle was got underway again, trundling down the road toward the waiting girl, and as headlights approached she tensed; only one shot.

Unholstering her PPK, she double checked it had a round in the chamber, then edged forward to where the protective undergrowth ended, just as the 5 tonne truck rumbled past. She was up and running, thankful for the space centre's low internal speed limits as she caught the rear bumper and swung herself up onto the tailgate to roll over its top into the canvas tented tray.

Inside she found herself sharing room with a couple of 44 gallon drums and a large, metal tool box. Deciding those were not of interest, she turned instead to peek between fabric curtains at what passed by outside. Like Panama barely a fortnight before, French Guiana was much too warm for the getup she was wearing, and the truck's thick cover only made matters worse, turning the air stifling, thick with the smell of exhaust and lubricants. As the lights of launch control's bunker rolled past, she tugged at her collar in the hope it might let some of the heat escape, but too little avail.

The opening she looked out of was her only real source of ventilation, and all it mostly did was funnel turbid exhaust back into the load tray. Muting a cough, the cyborg grimaced; that she was just going to have to put up with as, more to the point, it wouldn't be far to her destination, and overshooting would have her much too close to the eastern guard post for comfort.

Outside, the dim outline of the Launcher Integration Building cruised by, that was her cue. Counting to five Monty slid over the truck's tailgate, dropping onto the asphalt and rolling to a halt. Quickly she was off the roadway, dropping down into the culvert outlet she had spotted on Google maps. Moving down the open drain she made her way to a t-intersection and turned left toward where the trench curved away south east, following the twin lines of rail used to transport the assembled launcher from its integration facility to the BAF, running along the embankment above her.

To the right, under the tracks, small diameter culverts allowed water to flow from one side to the other and, after the recent rain they, like the bottom of the drain itself were wet and muddy, forcing the cyborg to stay on the cutting's edge. It also meant she was most likely going to need to risk running over the embankment's top to this cutting's southern partner, rather than staying safely below the ground's natural level.

Scrambling up the earth berm, Monty poked her head out and looked around. Almost directly to the south, probably about half a kilometre away, she could see the BAF. Though its base remained in deep shadow, the top of the building glowed white under intense flood lights, creating a ghostly edifice, rising out of the darkness. Listening intently, the cyborg was unable to pick up anything approaching along the roadway behind her, and a quick visual check seemed to confirm she indeed remained isolated in the night time complex.

Hauling herself over the top of the trench, she bolted across the exposed ground, grass turning to gravel beneath pounding feet as she leapt the railway lines before dropping into the diversion drain's far side twin. Laying still against cool earth she listened again, but heard nothing bar the rustling of grass and scritch of ground-level wildlife. Probably clear then.

Following the southern ditch until it came to a sharp turn, the girl forwent her phone's camera and bright screen again, instead poking her head up to survey the area. Barely 100 meters away, separated from her by an open stretch of hardstand, the BAF's glowing bulk loomed over its would-be infiltrator, towering up into inky black skies. Inspecting the base of the building, her keen eyes found the entrance the fratello's tour group had used that day; there were probably other ways in, but she was short on time and that door was at least a known evil.

Holstering her pistol again, Monty instead extracted her lockpicks for quick access and checked her surrounds one last time.

_Well, she couldn't see any better options._

Taking a deep breath the girl hurled herself from cover, sprinting low and silent out across hard concrete. Ahead the door grew larger, fifty meters, thirty, ten...

...she came to a screeching halt by the woodwork and, kneeling down, unrolled the soft leather wallet, setting about the door lock with two of the dull, blued metal tools it contained. The door's twin-array setup was not the simplest out there, but over her short lifetime the cyborg had enjoyed plenty of on-the-job experience. Soon she felt the last pin slide into place with a satisfying snick, and the tumbler twisted. Stowing her lockpicks again, she glanced up at the camera which stared unblinkingly down at her... and froze.

At first sight, what looked like a large twig or stick had wedged itself into the camera mount. Then it moved, and the girl's heart sank even further as the snake lifted its head to taste the air, forked tongue flicking in and out, moving further into the CCTV's field of vision.

She was trapped, exposed against the side of the building, unable to move out of the camera's view lest Ella cease its footage loop, cutting suddenly to the wrong picture.

_This was why she hated relying on what the boffins thought up; it was all a great idea _in theor_y, right up until someone actually tried to put theory into practice... then all the wheels tended to fall off._

"Piss off!" she hissed, attempting to shoo the creature away.

Unfortunately she was nowhere near close enough to take its interest and the reptile gazed lazily back, before curling tighter around the camera support. She hoped it didn't get too comfortable, and if it covered the camera lens she was in trouble as well. Looking around Monty searched for another option.

_What's the old saying? "Never work with children or animals"? I've had both in the space of twenty-four hours._

Careful to keep herself in view, the girl bent down to pick up a piece of gravel off the concrete by her feet. Taking aim she slung the bit of blue stone with cybernetic speed and accuracy at her new friend.

That had an effect. The snake's head snapped backward, recoiling from the blow and, retrieving another stone, Monty repeated the process, forcing it back a little further. Reaching down again, she felt for more ammunition. Arianespace were careful to keep their hardstand area clear of debris, she was going to have to make this one count lest she run out of things to throw.

The next shot went wide, bouncing off the building's metal cladding with a rattle and skittering across the pavement. Though not a loud noise, in the stillness of the night it sounded like a thunderclap, and the cyborg winced visibly. Its follow up however didn't miss, and her reptilian adversary pulled back again, just out of the camera's view. Not wasting time, the girl slipped through the building's door, shutting it quickly behind her.

Stowing her lockpick wallet, Monty again withdrew the PPK. Through the inner door's window, light was streaming from the main hanger; that was fine as long as it was also uninhabited. Taking a moment to push her sleeves up and allow cool air conditioning to wash across her skin, the cyborg listened intently: no sounds of work, no clanks or rattles, no voices or taps of footsteps on concrete and metal. Creeping to the woodwork, she peeked through its glass.

The vast space beyond did indeed seem empty and lifeless as she had hoped; maybe Murphy had been kind enough to back off after his trick with the snake.

_Or maybe he was saving up for something really special._

Either way, she had best be about it. Taking the doorknob in one gloved hand, the young agent slipped into the Ariane 5 final assembly area.

Deserted space or no she avoided the exposed steps to the top of the launch table, instead trotting around its circumference to the back of the building. Sparing a glance again for the yellow painted steel girders criss-crossing overhead, she discounted the idea; that was one for emergencies only. Instead finding the fire escape beneath it, she let herself in.

There had to be lifts somewhere, but the thought of being stuck in a confined box right now did not appeal, and she moved quickly up the concrete internal stair, doing her best to muffle footsteps in the echoing shaft, until a door appeared on the assembly room side. She hadn't been able to see any of those from the ground, so assumedly this first lead out onto the equipment bay platform. Cracking it slightly, she peeked through.

_Sometimes it was nice to be right._

Sliding out the opening and past a neatly arranged work bench, the girl crept to where the access swung out over thin air, looking down the length of over fifty meters of rocket to check the floor below for signs of life. Up this high, the steel plating on which she stood should do a pretty decent job of concealing her from anyone below, but there was no point in taking chances.

_Still clear._

A foot or two above where the platform butted up against the Ariane's body, a small hatch was open in its equipment bay's side, power and pneumatic umbilicals disappearing into the interior. Swinging herself through the opening, the cyborg followed their trail.

Inside the bay was extremely cramped, though well lit by the cold beams of work lights positioned at its circumference. All around her their bright, artificial rays sparkled off what appeared to be hundreds of circular protrusions on the inside of the bay's fairing. She had no idea what purpose they served, but the effect was reminiscent of the sort of fussy detailing one would expect at a high end club... or possibly inside a particularly odd disco ball.

That wasn't her concern right now however, and Monty's attention turned instead to the large, boxlike shape which filled the bulk of the space, supported by a conical adapter structure, extending from its base to the bay walls: Moratti's Mercury bird. Those fastenings seemed almost too light to hold their burden central against the forces of liftoff, but as the girl inspected the spacecraft more closely, it rapidly became apparent just how insubstantial it was. Folded in against two sides, covering the thin gold foil of its body, were two multi-panel solar arrays, concertinaed closed for stowage. On the two adjacent surfaces, large dish antennas formed white welts against the shiny surface, waiting to deploy on spindly arms, reaching skywards from servo drives near the floor. Of more interest however, high above at Mercury's zenith, she could just make out, disguised amongst antennas, the peering eyes of optics set proud of their surrounds...

_Definitely not a pure communications bird then._

The question was: what to do now? She daren't work near the foil lest it tear and tip someone off, and trying to climb one of the fragile looking arms to get to the optics was out of the question: the plan was to covertly turn Mercury into a very expensive piece of space junk, not prevent its launch all together. That however left her limited options for accessing its interior. Making a circuit of the bird she glanced at her watch; this was eating time. Ideally she wanted at the optics, now well out of reach just below the fairing's tip, but the only hard-access she could get to without risk of doing visible damage was where the antenna arms joined into the bird's body. She gave a small shrug; those would just have to do.

Inspecting the fasteners for the panels there, the girl ducked back outside to the work bench she had passed earlier. Selecting an appropriately sized Torx ratchet she snapped a photo of how it had been positioned and returned to the equipment bay. Kneeling in the shadow of one of the folded deployment arms, the cyborg worked quickly to open the access she had chosen. Neatly arranging the screws next to her on the flooring, delicate hands moved diagonally across the thin metal plate until she could lift it and the ceramic heat sink built in away to reveal a group of heftily secured circuit boards. If her and her handler's read were correct, then these particular boards controlled guidance and power, crammed down here to make room for the bulkier and more fragile optics and communications hardware at the bird's other end.

Unfortunately, unlike some of her compatriots at the SWA, Monty was no electronics whizz kid; and the drawings she had managed to pull and peruse had not included amongst their number any circuit diagrams.

_Which meant broad stroking things… she hated broad stroking things._

Turning slightly, the young agent eyed the floodlights illuminating the space she occupied: one of their power feeds should be plenty to fry the delicate circuitry. However the lingering smell of burnt electrics would risk tipping somebody off, and wholesale destruction of the boards would be too obvious for comfort as well.

Maybe there would be something outside she could use.

Back at the bench, Monty surveyed the detritus strewn across its top: more tools, a can of WD40 and circuit cleaner, three thick lever-arch folders assumedly pertaining to Mercury itself… those she eyed briefly, then turned away; she was a fast reader, but not fast enough to absorb all _that _right now… a pocket blow torch, insulation tape…

She stopped.

_Insulation tape._

Grabbing the roll of black adhesive vinyl the girl moved quickly back to where she had been working. Picking up her borrowed Torx wrench again she removed the bracket retaining the far left board and jiggled it free. Then, unwinding a strip of tape and pulling it into a tight single layer, carefully covered the gold contacts which had hooked that component into the rest of Mercury's circuitry. Replacing the board, she bolted it back in and inspected her handiwork, using her iPhone to illuminate the dim interior of the electronics box.

Perfect, even to her eyes there were no visible signs of tampering and, as best she could make out from the literature, once a satellite was assembled inside the equipment bay under the eye of its owners, Arianespace took a distinctly hands-off approach until it reached orbit.

Withdrawing her phone, Monty looked at the circuit board's companions; this was going to take awhile. Then she glanced at her watch; a bit more of awhile than she was entirely comfortable with. However, there were times to search out a better solution, and other times to just cut your losses and get on with the job.

This particular instance, she felt, fell into the latter category. Starting to remove the next board, she set to work.

The girl moved fast, as fast as she could without getting sloppy. Fifteen boards, fourteen not counting the one she had already dealt with, four minutes a pop… give or take. As her watch ticked past 4am, Monty began to replace the heat sink equipped panel, working in a diagonal pattern again to prevent warping the light metal fixings. She was just torqueing the last fastener home as distant, spoken, French started to waft to her through the equipment bay's open hatch.

That wasn't what she wanted to hear.

Giving the little ratchet one final twist for good measure, she slipped quietly back to the work bench. Checking her borrowed equipment's positioning against the photo on her phone she set it back in place before, staying low to keep her outline from the view of those beneath, moving toward the edge of the platform. Hopefully all she could hear would be a couple of gendarmes or legionnaires doing an early morning security check.

Peering over the precipice to steel and concrete far below, the girl's heart sank. Stood in the middle of the space her tour group had occupied barely twelve hours prior was a small knot of people. One held a coffee, another a tablet PC along with a sheath of drawings whilst a third talked and gestured at the rocket before them, waving his own covered mug in the air. As the last pointed further up the Ariane's bulk, three hard-hatted heads following suit, Monty pulled back out of sight to assess her options. She and her handler had expected Arianespace's personnel to be early, particularly on the day before a launch, but not quite _this_ early. She had to escape, and _fast_.

From the BAF floor came the noise of a door opening, and a cheerful greeting… those three down there were not just particularly early risers, _everyone_ was starting to arrive.

_Guess Murphy really had been saving up for a doozy._

Getting down was going to be the problem; the fire stairs may be safer than trying for a lift, but if some fitness freak decided to use those rather than wait for the elevator she would have absolutely no options; and the support structure at the back of the bay was much too open to risk above a busy work floor. As she swung around however her eye fell on the tall umbilical mast, rising from the launch platform below. The structure was enclosed, protecting the services it carried from each rocket's fiery awakening; surely it would have some kind of internal access to check those lines.

From behind the rear wall came the sound of an elevator motor, and the girl made her decision, scampering the length of the platform to fetch up against its handrail. It looked like she was in luck; another gantry jutted out from the wall, leading to, well, something around the mast's back; too far for a regular human to jump, but not for a cyborg... Which of course would be a moot point were she caught playing Ms. Marvel.

Behind her, the lift motor stopped.

Nothing for it, she was out of options. Doing a fast check of the area around and below, the girl took two steps back, then ran and leapt lightly, almost casually, out, sailing across the void to catch a hold of the flooring of her intended target. Sharp, non-slip grating dug into her fingers through thin gloves and she stifled a grunt of pain, but it had either been that or risk clattering onto the steelwork in a roll. Hauling herself onto the platform before anyone could look up from the assembly floor, Monty checked where she had come to. This gantry did indeed lay alongside the tower and, much to her relief, in that's metal sheeting were cut two vertical rows of small hatches.

Inside was dimly lit, service lines and two heavily insulated pipes running up the far wall of the structure, disappearing into the darkness above and below. Of more interest to the cyborg however was the ladder running the structure's full height, welded to steel on her right.

Swinging onto the rungs, she closed and secured the hatch behind and started to rapidly descend, stopping every dozen meters or so to listen. Each time she did, it seemed yet more voices had joined the hubbub outside; apparently the religious quiet which had left the tour group so in its thrall had merely been a calm before the storm. At this rate, sneaking out was going to be all but impossible.

Stopping for what seemed like the umpteenth time, she looked down: the floor was in sight now, metal decking inside the launch table now less than ten meters below her feet, lit by light spilling in from outside. Almost there, then all she would need to do was somehow sneak down the access stairs the tour had used and…

From somewhere in the building, a new noise cut across the chorus of human voices; a mechanical clank, then a groan and rumble of something extremely heavy, rolling on undamped tracks. Below her, the patch of artificial light which had been streaming onto chequer plate ran back toward the exterior, before disappearing all together. A knot started to form in the pit of the girl's stomach, if that had been what she thought it was, then she was in real trouble. Fighting down the urge to rush her next set of actions, Monty dropped silently to the ground.

She was in a small room, pipes and valves clustered along one wall, with banks of monitoring equipment facing them; Ariane's life support systems from here to its launch site.

A few meters to her right however was a door with a small window, where the light before had been entering. Now however it was just a dark portal. Staying low and close to the wall, she edged over to peek through.

Her earlier fears were confirmed. Instead of the brightly lit inner face of the BAF's massive shutters, outside was just the black of night, pressing up against where warm light from Ariane's assembly bay spilled out across the hardstand and ground immediately in front of the building. It could have been an almost pretty scene, minute people readying the fiery titan above her in the pre-dawn, had the practical upshot not been that her only exit was now far too exposed to risk attempting to sneak down: she was trapped.

Monty turned back to her new prison; if she was going to be stuck here then she had best be well concealed. Somewhere below her feet lay the computers controlling the remote interfaces for both rocket and satellite. Those rooms would arguably have made a better place to hide, but getting to them would require moving across the table's increasingly busy exterior; and that just was not on the cards.

A quick inspection of the equipment banks found them to be hard up against the room's metal wall and so of no use to her. However the cluster of pipes across from them were more promising, and a closer look revealed a small gap in behind which she may, _may_ be able to squeeze into.

Unhooking the pistol and holster from the small of her back, the girl shoved both into a pocket and, sitting as close to a support as possible, swung her legs over so they slid down the narrow opening between pipes and wall. Finding the floor with her toes she let the rest of her body follow suit, turning her head sideways so it could also disappear behind the steelwork.

Not a moment too soon either and Monty rolled down her sleeves, covering light skin, pressing herself back into the shadows as voices stopped by the door. Peering from her recumbent position through small gaps, she watched as the metal hatchway creaked open to admit two men in clean-room garb, wielding powerful LED torches.

Talking softly to each other, the engineers set about the room's contents. Despite being a native French speaker, the hidden spy had absolutely no idea what was being said, their jargon creating its own subset of that dialect completely alien to those not of their profession.

Finishing on the equipment cabinets, the inspectors turned around to the piping opposite, beginning to check where the lines ran up to join into the umbilical mast, and work their way down. Monty barely dared breathe. In the tiny gap she occupied there was no room to move; if they spotted her then her options were be captured or shoot them both, either of which would blow the entire job. Doing her best impression of an empty space, the girl watched as torch beams moved closer, pulling her dark cap down to cover her face. They seemed to be less concerned about the centre sections of the lines, away from connections, so with a bit of luck...

Cold light flashed over where she was hidden then was gone, moving on to the far end flanges and seals.

Monty still remained on guard, every heartbeat seeming like thunder in her ears until she was again alone. Slowly counting off two minutes to give the engineers time to return for anything they had forgotten, she edged her phone out of her pocket and checked its encryption suite was enabled, holding it inside her hat to mask the screen's glow. She was safe, for a given value of safe, for now, but it would be best if she also let her handler in on the secret. While he wasn't generally one to come charging in at the first sign of trouble, it was likely to be a good few hours before she was able to move again, at least until the table reached the Ariane launch site. In that case it would be thoughtful to make him at least aware of her predicament...

Working quickly lest, despite her best efforts, the LCD's backlight give away her presence, the girl typed out a quick message to her partner and hit send.

* * *

><p>Shifting restlessly to another, slightly different, position in the front of the fratello's rented Prado, Jethro worried. That was a ridiculous thing to do if he looked at it logically, but just right now it was, unfortunately, about the only thing he had to occupy his mind. He hated this variety of job, the variety where all he could do was sit around and hope his girl would return to him in one piece.<p>

_Not to mention he had now been worrying for slightly longer than he should have been._

Blowing the job he wasn't so concerned over; Monty had come a long way since innocent eyes first looked up at him from a SWA hospital bed. However the timeframe they had was limited, it was always limited, and as their experiences in Colombia had driven home, despite their physical strength and resilience, the cyborgs were still fragile beings.

From where it rested on the centre console his phone buzzed, and the handler just about dove for it, snatching the glass and aluminium sandwich up to peer at its screen.

Message from an unknown number: _Will be late, don't wait up._

With that, a little of the tension left his shoulders, his partner was safe, at least for now, but delayed. The unknown number would be her iPhone's vampire app taking over someone else's digits nearby, which at least meant she was still in a position to disguise who and where she was, and the wording backed that up. The flip side of the coin of course was that, even had he considered replying a good idea, that option was barred to him: the message would have gone to someone else's phone.

The question now was exactly how late "late" was. Ella was set to eliminate itself from the space centre's CCTV system at five o'clock which was, he glanced at his watch, just under forty minutes from now. After that, Monty would be thoroughly on her own.

_Not to mention they had a plane to catch._

Placing the mobile back down, Jethro Blacker returned to the only task he had available to him: worrying.

* * *

><p>Cool morning sunlight was starting to filter in through the door's portal when a lurch of movement jolted Monty out of the half daydream she had been in, and the girl cursed herself for drifting off like that. Unfortunately, she had been on the go now for near on twenty-four hours, and as the adrenaline of her earlier infiltration and concealment started to wear off, she was having trouble staying focused.<p>

_Which was still no excuse._

Now however that focused energy was returning as, to the grumbling tune of a low-revving diesel, she felt the launch table begin to rumble slowly along steel tracks. On the upside, as long as they were on the move she could probably be reasonably certain of not being disturbed, and while the Ariane and its assembly could only really be going one place, part of her wanted to be very certain that was indeed their end destination.

Struggling into a position from which to extricate herself from behind the collection of pipes and data runs, the girl slid up the wall, before placing her buttocks on the top pipe and pulled her legs up behind her, swinging them to the floor on the other side. Not wanting to show her face against the door's glass however, Monty found a place from whence she could make the most of the portal's limited field of view, without leaving the shadows. Right now there was not much to see beyond trees and sky, but as the table continued its inevitable journey, the white tower and tall structures of the launch site's lightning masts slid past her view. Adjusting position slightly so as to get an angle on her destination, she kept an eye on it, moving gradually closer.

The young agent grimaced: going to the launch site was a mixed blessing at best right now. On one hand it was quite close to the space centre's perimeter fence. However, the ground on which it resided was very flat and exposed, which was why it had been on the "avoid" list to begin with… and "quite" was, as always, a relative term. The Google image had admittedly shown up a few drainage ditches she may be able to use, but they were all still open to the sky, and those working nearby would be at a significant elevation above ground level.

Either way, she would want to be back in her hiding place before they stopped.

There were still a few minutes spare however, and Monty remained looking out the window, burning everything she could see from here into her mind. Four tall lattice structures stood high above even the Ariane 5, heavy wire looping between them intended to draw in lightning from Guiana's inevitable tropical storms. Close to where the launch table would stop, the monolithic white services tower stood. Though she was still far away, Monty could make out a number of openings in its face, approximately in line with those she had used to enter the umbilical mast earlier.

_That would explain a lot then._

Other than that, a few odd concrete structures poked up from ground level, her best guess being that they were part of the blast deflector system and, further afield, the water tower. That probably brought her close enough now, and the girl set about squeezing back into her hiding place to wait; muscles protesting at the proposition of being forced into cramped disuse once again.

There were other issues to be sorted out anyway. Having to operate in daylight notwithstanding, by now Ella would have wiped itself from the CCTV network. While the young secret agent was no stranger to dodging security cameras, neither she nor her handler had been able to reconnoitre the launch site section of the spaceport, leaving her uncomfortably short on details regards what may be waiting there.

As the table came to a gentle halt, Monty pulled her cap down again to help hide her skin in the shadows. Cameras were a problem for the future, one though which would not need dealing with should she be captured beforehand, so right now she needed to stay out of sight until some sort of opening presented itself. She doubted that would be for awhile yet; but assumedly even space centre workers took a smoko. Ideally she'd wait until dark to leave, but the fratello's flight was slated for late afternoon, and missing it would be one more irregularity they didn't need next to their names. Still, if morning break for the CSG landed around the usual 10am, they should be able to make it in time.

_...should._

She hoped Jethro wasn't worrying too much. More concerningly perhaps, the longer he remained in place, the greater became the chance of his being found and asked awkward questions, and were he forced to move, meeting up again could get... complicated. There were not many publicly accessible roads near the spaceport complex and, even if she ran, making it to one of them and then to the airport before their plane left would be almost impossible.

_Her partner would figure something out... she just had to do her part and get to him._

Laying motionless in the dark, Monty counted heartbeats as the hours ground slowly by, listening to footsteps clanking past on the metal above and around her, joining voices echoing down the umbilical mast's hollow core. At least this room benefited from air conditioning, one upside perhaps of needing to keep the whole launch system as reliable as possible, and therefore within its optimal working temperatures. Unfortunately, that also made the room somewhere to escape the heat and humidity outside, and the girl was forced to keep herself pressed back into the shadows as visitor after visitor took a few minutes respite.

As the hands of her Heuer climbed toward 10am however, the refugees, voices and footsteps started to tail off, before finally disappearing all together.

In the dark, the cyborg lay still, listening hard. Nothing, nothing close at least... a good five minutes of nothing.

That was going to have to do. She wasn't sure how long the workers' morning break went for, but it couldn't be long. Extricating herself from her hidey hole again, the girl pushed up charcoal sleeves and slunk to the door, taking her phone in hand as she did so. Staying hidden, she raised its camera just above the sill line and took a quick series of shots to build a panorama of what lay outside.

_Clear._

Pocketing the mobile again, Monty reached up and edged the steel hatch open a crack to peak out. Finding the platform outside uninhabited she quickly slipped through, closing up behind herself, and slunk across the deck to peek over its edge.

With the area below seemingly also free of spaceport employees she paused a moment to take stock of her situation. A wide vista of clear ground fanned out from the raised launch site, stretching all the way to the fenced perimeter, beyond which inviting jungle beckoned. Towering over the scene on her left, its white bulk at odds with natural surrounds stood the Ariane launcher, mist forming and falling away from its flanks as the main stage's cryogenic tanks were filled, chilling it below freezing in the humid air. Level with the blackened platform on which she crouched, the rocket's engines pointed into deep pits which would direct their blast safely away from the rest of the spaceport.

_The blast tunnels._

On either side of the launch pad, sprouting away from it at forty-five degrees, two massive concrete jet deflector outlets dealt with the exhaust from the launch vehicle's boosters, channelling their fires up to ground level for dispersal. However, angled directly between them was a smaller, part covered, concrete lined trench, cut deep into the earth for the main motor. Small was of course again a relative term, but if she stuck close to its walls it may just give her cover away from the paved area ringing the launch site and to the huge open drains which drew rain and sound dampening water runoff to the spaceport's fence line.

Scampering to the burnt, charred side of the platform she was on, Monty checked she was still clear and clambered over the railing. Dropping silently to the deck below, she moved to look down into the dark void beneath the rocket's tail.

_That was a _long_ way down._

Still, beggars could not be choosers, but they _could_ lessen the drop. Swinging again over the launch table's final protective railing, the girl found what she was aiming at and stepped off. Twisting in the air she caught the lip of a concrete girder carrying one of the platform's rails, coming to an abrupt halt and smashing against the trench's solid back.

Hanging by her fingertips, she looked down past her own feet to where the concrete floor curved up to meet the wall against which she lay. The surface was pitted and worn, bearing the scars of launches long past. That was going to make touchdown difficult, but she had committed to this course of action the moment she stepped off the table.

Taking a deep breath, Monty let go.

Wind rushed past her, concrete blurring as she fell down its face. Then it curved outward and she was landed, half running, half sliding down the slope, eyes desperately trying to find any obstacles in murky darkness ahead as it curved to a shallower and shallower gradient.

She almost made it.

One deep pothole, covered in soot and disguised against the blackness caught her foot and she was pitching forward into a barely controlled tumble, bouncing across the hard, damaged floor. Sliding to a halt the girl was upright quickly, dusting herself off. High above she could still see the business end of an Ariane rocket, but ahead there was light at the end of the tunnel.

_Lets just hope it's not a train._

Taking a step forward, pain suddenly lanced up Monty's leg; seemingly she had done herself some damage on arrival. Reaching down to tentatively prod at her ankle she winced again; that hurt. It didn't feel broken though, probably just bruised. Either way, the stabbing discomfort was already starting to recede as the cyborg part of her blotted it out and she hobbled off, sticking close to the wall.

By the time she reached bare earth at the end of the trench, her body's insistent registering of injury had disappeared and, peeking over the last remaining bit of concrete upstand, the girl scanned her surroundings and cocked an ear. Far off she could hear the sound of vehicles; one headed her way, probably engineers returning to the launch zone and, fainter yet, the clank of the Foreign Legion's treads, still dutifully patrolling the perimeter; a perimeter which now lay directly ahead of her, and just a few hundred tantalising meters away.

Unfortunately the most direct line between it and her was also the most exposed. Choosing a shorter sprint across the open ground, Monty instead dropped into one of the open drainage trenches, scampering fast and rat-like along its side, keeping herself off the sticky mud floor.

As she exited its end onto low, soggy ground, the sound of caterpillar tracks started to grow louder. Seemingly the Legionnaires had finished their far circuit and were headed back this way, that wasn't good. In this sag point, plant life was thicker than on the grassed compound, benefiting from a ready supply of discharge water and nutrients, but it was nowhere near dense enough to conceal her from a passing vehicle. Taking another step her shoe sunk into more of the soft earth; and she certainly wasn't going to be able to jump the wire off this either.

Moving low and fast, the girl made her way diagonally toward the fence, glancing repeatedly at the launch table behind, until the foliage around her began to thin again. Looking back to where she had come from a final time, the cyborg froze. On the metal platform, two men now stood, discussing something, gesturing up and down the Ariane; unfortunately, that also put her well in their field of view. She was probably safe for the time being by simple distance and tunnel focus but, even in their peripheral vision, any movement was liable to give her away.

_Come on, _leave_. Go inside. Hide from the heat out here._

The clanking treads of the patrol vehicle were much closer now, probably just behind the next rise. She had made it this far, if the whole job came apart now...

To her immense relief, both men turned around, studying the tablet one held in the shade from their bodies.

It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do. One last, very fast check and Monty was up and sprinting for the fence. Making sure to takeoff on her good foot the cyborg launched herself over, staying as low as she dared, soles just kissing the razor wire of its top. Catching her landing in a roll she threw herself at the jungle, disappearing into its undergrowth just as the patrolling Legion _Bandvagn_ crested the hill and came clattering down into the soggy hollow the agent had so recently departed.

* * *

><p>A tap at his window jolted Jethro from his half daydream state, and as he unlocked their rental the rear door clicked open to admit his partner, looking somewhat the worse for wear.<p>

"Glad to see you so concerned about my wellbeing."

The handler bit back the voice of worry which had been about to leave his lips. "I _did _say I would sleep in the car. How'd you go?"

Lowering the towel she had been using to wipe grime off her face, Monty shot him a small, but genuine, smile in the rear-view mirror. "Finished. If we were right, then all Mercury's going to wind up looking at is deep space."

Reaching back, the Englishman gave his girl's knee a squeeze and offered her a lopsided grin. "Then what say we get out of here?"

"Then what say we do. I need a chance to clean up, but if we intend to make our flight you had best put your foot down."

Following her advice, Jethro fired up the car, spinning it around in a tight circle to head back toward Kourou and the highway to Cayenne.

Eventually swinging off the dirt track onto sealed tarmac, he reached down to turn on the radio, as Monty clambered between the front seats into her normal passenger side position. Now appearing more her usual immaculate self, dressed in the white, deeply v-necked shirt and black pencil skirt of her "around the house" look, the girl turned the volume up as she set about tying a red scarf around her neck to transform the outfit into something publicly presentable.

"_It is oh-nine-hundred GMT, and time for a news update, live from London. This is the BBC World Service. The European business community is reeling today after Italian billionaire Baldo de Moratti was reported missing from his holiday home near the Swiss town of Grindelwald..."_

Monty's head snapped around to meet her handler's eye, but said nothing as the plum British accent continued with its report.

"_...rescue teams have so far been unable to locate Moratti or his female companion after they failed to return from skiing twenty-four hours ago. The woman's identity remains a mystery. In light of the uncertainty over Moratti's whereabouts, Moratti Technologia Communicazione stocks fell, sparking a general downward trend, and European market analysts have raised concerns over the consequences of this blow to one of the few companies still seemingly unaffected by the Euro zone crisis..."_

The girl cocked an eyebrow and her handler nodded. "Are you thinking who I'm thinking?"

"I think I might be."

Now Jethro returned his attention to the road, but kept talking. "An Italian national missing, under suspicious circumstances, in Switzerland..."

"We've only met the woman properly twice, and each time life seems to have taken a turn for the _complicated_."

**To Be Continued...**


	9. CH09 A Roman Holiday - Part 01

**AND THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction, based on works by Yu Aida. _

* * *

><p><em>Special thanks to all those who have allowed me use of their OC characters for this and the next chapter, and have helped me mould the words to them. In no particular order for CH09: Kiskaloo|Kara &amp; Michele, Professor Voodoo|Marisa &amp; Elio and Genco Ribisi, MP5|Brian &amp; Allison, ElfenMagix|Rachel and Officer_Charon|John Darme… I hope I can do them justice.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 09|A Roman Holiday – Part 01<strong>

The thud of low profile tyres over raised steel rails caused the slumbering girl to shift slightly, lips uttering an indecipherable mutter before falling back to silence. Glancing at his teenage charge, Michele Pagani edged the rear wheels of his Ferrari FF more carefully across the SWA's security gate track, before accelerating smoothly away between rows of darkened conifers, lining the compound's access road as honour guard soldiers welcoming home some victorious comrade.

He gave a small snort at that; how many cyborgs would share the view of a zero kills mission being "victorious" was debatable, but his fratello was returning in one piece, and for now he was willing to accept the small wins when and where they presented themselves.

"Wake up Kara, we're back."

Edging open bleary eyes, the Asian-featured 'Kara' looked groggily at lights still illuminating the long building ahead of them, their glow dissected by caisson windows into so many even grid squares. People spoke of cities which never slept, but seemingly amongst the surrounds of rural Italy there were also those still kept up and about at this hour by some unknown, but ultimately pressing task. Unfortunately she would soon be joining their number, albeit hopefully briefly.

Instead of driving straight through into the building's main entrance courtyard, her handler turned down its long sandstone face, until the even rumble of rubber on coarse chip asphalt gave way to crunching gravel as the supercar nosed into the more remote personnel car park. Though further removed from the staff and handlers' accommodations, the blued stone space was significantly more handy to the cyborg dorm and, mostly awake now, she was thankful for the small gesture of thoughtfulness.

It was also further from prying eyes, and Michele guided his big GT to park beside a dark grey Audi estate, its bodywork a caricature of swollen plastic guards, bash plates and high riding suspension, stashed away in a dim corner.

"Looks like the Blackers are in town."

Despite her drowsiness, Kara perked up at this, following where her handler motioned. "Hey, they are too. I wonder if Monty still has the dress I bought her in Monaco?"

"With _my_ Amex card."

The girl opened her eyes wide, fluttering their lashes, and cocked her head to one side. "But I have _good_ karma."

The big V12 finally burbled to a stop to leave just the ticking of rapidly cooling metal, and the handler pursed his lips with a murmured 'hmm'. Opening his door to swing one leg out, he however said no more, instead moving the conversation on. "How long ago was that? Three? Four months?"

Now his cyborg joined him in the chill winter-night air. "At least; Monty must be coming about due for her next service… oh, if she's in the hospital we should go visit!"

In the darkness, Michele gave his head a small shake, accompanied by a beneficent smile; he wasn't certain if the girl in question would appreciate that particular sentiment. "Well… check with Mr. Blacker first?"

Turning back to what he was doing, the handler lifted his Ferrari's tailgate, and slid the long plastic case resting under the boot's load cover toward him, unclasped it and raised the lid to reveal a DSR-1 sniper rifle. After a check that the whole package was indeed devoid of ammunition, he closed the box back up and handed it off to Kara.

"I don't think Jean will mind if we shift debrief to the morning rather than now," he stated, glancing at his watch. "Get that cleaned up though and we can return it to the armoury after breakfast."

"But I never even fired it."

That earned her a sterner look. "Which doesn't mean you shouldn't clean it up for the next person who might want to use it."

"Yes Michele."

Massaging the ridge of his brow with one set of fingers, the man winced internally: that had come out sharper than intended. Relenting he looked at her again. "What have you got on tomorrow?"

"Umm, other than the debriefing? Maths with Ms. Ferro and English with Mr. Hilshire… then shoot house in the afternoon."

"Tell you what, I'll talk to Jean and Ferro and see if you can skip morning lessons. That way we can push debrief back to a sensible hour. We were only support on this one anyway, and to be honest I think we could both use the sleep."

Putting her rifle down, the girl gave her handler a quick hug. "Thank you Michele."

"You did well today Kara, even if you didn't pull the trigger, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

* * *

><p>Taking a sip of coffee, Jethro glanced across to where his girl sat propped up by a couple of starchy pillows in the SWA hospital bed, auburn hair a welcome splash of warmth against hygienic whiteness, whilst a similarly stiff sheet protected her modesty under cold fluorescent lights. Catching her eye he flicked her an encouraging smile, which was returned by a cocked eyebrow and unimpressed expression.<p>

_Perhaps she thought he was taunting her._

Her own hands were empty of any beverage, and would remain so until the doctors were certain the additional conditioning drug dose and sedatives from surgery had worn off. Instead, for now, she had to make do with the fleeting dregs of caffeinated scent which managed to cut their way through the medical wing's chemical laced, bleach and antiseptic atmosphere.

"Frankly Blacker, you're to be commended for bringing her back in such good condition…" Doctor Bianchi took a sip of his own coffee, then continued dryly "…maybe we can get you a little certificate or something."

"I try. The bullet wound?"

"...Was in soft tissue and an easy fix; the rest was pretty routine, though…"

"You're both aware I'm _right here_ aren't you?" the two men turned to where the subject of discussion was eyeing them, the same expression from before still firmly in place. "I _can_ be included in the conversation."

Stepping back a pace, Jethro reached down to give her naked shoulder a squeeze while Bianchi continued. "…though we will want to keep _you_ here under observation for at least another twenty-four hours. After that you will need to remain on-campus a few more days until we're certain you're back up to full strength."

"_Joy."_

Now the doctor hesitated, glancing around soulless walls as he searched for the next set of words. Briefly his eyes fell on where the full breadth mirror running along one side of the room caught the reflection of the three occupants, somehow less aesthetically pleasing when one knew its true purpose. The Blacker man was now perched silently on the edge of his girl's bed, seemingly waiting on the medical practitioner's next pronouncement. His eyes however stared out into the middle distance, deep in thought, and one hand rested on her shoulder, thumb absentmindedly making small massaging circles against the artificial flesh beneath it. The girl however had noticed Bianchi taking in the reflected scene, and now locked eyes with him in mirrored glass. Eyebrows raising slightly, almost in challenge, one fine fingered hand reached up to gently caress and still her partner's movement, causing the latter to glance down, seemingly in surprise at his own action.

It was such a... human... little moment and, taking a deep breath, Bianchi let the other shoe drop. "While Monique's fine physically, what we, and by 'we' I mean 'Doctor Belesario and myself' don't recommend is stretching out her conditioning again as long as you both did."

He stopped to let that sink in.

"In fairness the circumstances _were_ extreme," noted Jethro, cautiously, after a pause.

"I understand that…" the doctor pinched the bridge of his nose with a free hand, choosing the easy route rather than the obvious rebuttal, "…we both do. The conditioning process though is still very experimental, but at its core relies on the brain being tricked into adapting to the cybernetics plugged into it. We then use a drug cocktail to make up the gap, force it to accept the artificial components' requirements as norms and prevent rejection. Take away that cushioning, and there's a chance Monique here's body _will _start to reject those implants. To be honest we're not certain what the effect of that would be, or even if we would be able to bring such a rejection back under control."

Now he looked directly at Monty. "Belesario and myself both agree there doesn't appear to have been any damage done, _this time_, however I would advise against reprising the role in a repeat performance. It's a slippery slope and none of us has been down it before, at least not in _this _manner."

From her bed, the girl gave a slow nod of understanding, as did her handler beside her, and Bianchi allowed himself an internal sigh of resignation. To be fair, Jethro Blacker's cyborg _did _generally present in better shape than many of the girls, some of whom he was fairly certain actively tried to collect as much flying lead as possible. However, on balance the fratello in question tended to treat doctor's orders more like, to paraphrase a movie he had once quite enjoyed: _guidelines_.

_He wasn't likely to make much more headway tonight._

"Anyway, I will leave you two in peace. Jethro, I'll have a full report on her status through to you in the next couple of days."

With that the SWA medic turned to leave, but was surprised to see his other adult companion rise as well, giving his girl's shoulder another squeeze in the process and picking up the camel driving coat which lay across the foot of her bed.

"If that's all doctor, then I need to get a rattle on too..." Glancing at his partner, the handler shot her a look, which was met by a fleeting, quirked smile, "...there's someone I need to catch."

"Good luck with that, this late the only people likely to be around are cyborgs and those coming in from missions or too stupid to go home," returned Bianchi, opening the door just in time to reveal Jose and Henrietta passing through the corridor. "Speak of the devil."

As Croce and his charge stopped, the white coated man knelt down to the little cyborg's level, putting on a kindly face, "and how is the arm Henrietta?"

Holding out the offending appendage, now dressed in a white bandage, the girl smiled. "Much better now Doctor Bianchi. The pain is gone, and Doctor Donato said it would be fixed in a few days."

"What happened?" Put in Jethro, joining the group at the door.

"We had a mission this afternoon and…"

"I was _bitten_," took over Henrietta, "by a _dog_."

"It was a toy poodle."

The girl was indignant. "It still hurt. _Kara_ should have shot it; it was her job to stop us being attacked."

Jethro kept his face admirably neutral, but his bed-ridden partner let out a small snort of mirth and derision.

"Either way, the mission was a success," stepped in the younger Croce.

"And, Jose let me have gelato afterwards!"

"Isn't it the middle of…"

With a small headshake, the Gen 1's handler stopped his compatriot short, laying a palm on his charge's hair, causing a bright smile to spread across her face. Looking past the two men in the doorway, she finally noticed the other girl sitting in bed.

"Hello Monty…"

The greeting was returned with a perfunctory, flat faced, wave.

"…what are you doing here?"

"Laying in bed, what does it _look_ like."

"Oh…" Henrietta seemed momentarily taken aback but, buoyed along by the memory of gelato and attention, quickly regained her chirpy attitude… "well if you are out by tomorrow we will be having tea in the dorm, so if you want to…"

"No, and if I _am_ fortunate enough to be out of here by tomorrow my presence will be required for things elsewhere."

"What sort of things?"

"Things you don't need to know about."

Stepping in before the conversation could continue, Jethro turned to the two other adults. "Sorry, but I actually _do_ need to get moving."

"Which way are you headed?" replied Jose, also taking the opportunity to nip a brewing problem in the bud.

"The office, and then hopefully: bed."

"We'll walk with you."

Turning back into the white, individual bed hospital room, the Englishman regarded his partner. "I'll try and swing past tomorrow. Do you want anything?"

"Yes; my computer, something to _do_… and close the door."

Shooting her one last, quick, smile, the handler did as instructed, checking the latch was secure. Not that he could have missed the stout clunk of its action, but old habits died hard. The latch, like the door and frame, was heavier than might have been expected, as were all those along this stretch of red-marked corridor; intended to withstand a sustained and powerful assault from within. Though not likely required right now, Observation Room 2 was a stark reminder of what could, and did, go wrong.

Bidding Bianchi goodnight, he and the younger Croce fratello made their way past more of the section's large-numeraled doors, through antiseptic and artificial hospital corridors, eventually emerging into Italy's chill winter night. Shrugging on the driving coat over his charcoal three-piece suit, Jethro then dug in a pocket for a set of merino lined gloves, scarf and heavy tweed cap, whilst his companions built their own armour against the cold.

Walking in silence the three made their way across darkened grounds, and in the quiet the triplet's English component thought hard. While taking the other fratello with him had circumvented one potential problem, it now presented him with another; and somewhere along the way he was going to need to quietly get rid of his current companions. Where he was headed next, he would prefer not to have extras.

Arriving at a crossroads between the administration buildings and cyborg dormitory, the small party stopped whilst Jose bid his charge farewell.

"…keep it out of water, and ask Triela to check the bandage for you in the morning."

"Yes Jose, goodnight Jose."

"Goodnight, Henrietta."

Waiting as the young girl trotted off toward her own accommodation, turning around briefly to wave again, Jethro watched his current companion return the gesture. As he did so, the hint of a shadow passed across the Italian's face, marring his features; but as quickly as it had come the expression cleared again, leaving a worn look in its wake.

"Honestly, things today didn't go quite as smoothly as we had hoped," started the younger Croce brother. "Despite what I said to Henrietta, there _were_ moments when Kara could have engaged and simplified things."

"Seems unusual; I was under the impression your girls generally preferred to take any kills they could. Was there reason she didn't?"

"You haven't caught the news this evening I take it?"

"No, Monty's been in surgery since midday."

Jose paused slightly. "There was a shooting in Rome this afternoon, away from where we were operating, but a sniper. We were put under last minute orders to keep sniper shots to a minimum in case we worried the public further."

"Sounds a little un-Jean like."

"It wasn't his call."

Another two steps passed in silence.

"I take it actual information is still fairly thin on the ground then?"

"Yes, it's an isolated incident, so the SWA hasn't been particularly involved either… though I fear you may not have chosen the best time to visit."

At that Jethro gave a wry smile. "That's ok, Monty and I generally prefer to make ourselves scarce inside Italy's borders anyway rather than attempt some sort of Roman holiday."

"Besides..." he nodded at a bright yellow Vespa as the two entered the main courtyard car park, its garish colouration starkly juxtaposed against generally bleak surrounds, "...for the sane, scooter riding is a summer pursuit. With a bit of luck it shouldn't affect us."

"Hmm."

Aside from the little bike, the asphalted space was marred by only a smattering of other vehicles: Jose's own Porsche Boxster, Jean's Mercedes, a FIAT Punto the spy recognised as belonging to one Avise Manchini beside a classic Bambino from the same maker that he didn't, a few other staffers' cars and, he was pleased to note, a white BMW M3 saloon.

_Seemed he was in time to catch its owner after all._

"I assume you're sleeping here?"

Turning to where Jose had stopped, the Brit nodded. "Easier to stay out of the public eye that way, rather than commuting back and forward from a hotel… think I'll stick my nose in on the office before hitting the hay."

"Well, I might see you tomorrow."

"'Night, mate."

Heading toward the building's entrance, Jethro heard the clack of a car door, followed by a flat, horizontally opposed six, blare. Shortly the noise receded, engine management system decided it had enough oil, and the revs dipped again as the other man edged his sports car out of its spot.

Climbing stone steps toward the SWA administration block's warm interior, the handler stripped back to his suit again, running his ID with the guard stationed beside the barber-shop striped inside barrier. As the wooden arm rose however, the man stopped him, taking an extra moment to scrutinise closer an unfamiliar face, before finally waving him on.

The SWA were certainly not the first inhabitants of these buildings, and their architecture hinted at an era before the luxury of air-conditioning; large central courtyards allowing breezes to sweep in over the lawns and through brick shelled rooms. The practical upshot was that Jethro had a bit of a walk ahead, and he took a moment to study the ID card in his hand, running a thumb over its smooth, shiny face. Fresh and unblemished, it certainly looked newer than those used by his compatriots; left as it was at the Agency, along with Monty's, the vast majority of its life. Despite having worked for the Italians near on two years, that fact alone marked him as an outsider to an otherwise close knit fraternity.

It wasn't however the first time he had been in this position, and most likely would not be the last… and some fraternities understood that better than others.

Stepping into a large office set aside for the handlers' desks, the ex-SIS man looked around. The room was open and spacious, with tall windows down its courtyard side, facing the glazed hallway divider, set out from the building's opposite wall. High ceilings disappeared into darkness, currently extinguished lighting fixtures bolted to metal frames suspended below to carry power, air conditioning ducts, fire sprinklers and the other sundries demanded by modern life and regulation.

Wooden desks, a leftover from some previous owner, were set in groups of four, divided and bookended by sets of low shelves, which were newer. Each group clustered around a vertebrae-like conduit carrying power and data cables up to the framework above, their hanging forms giving the whole darkened space the air of some strange, otherworldly creeper garden.

In a pool of warm desk lamp illumination however, at one of the better positions near the windows, sat an elder man, bespectacled face framed by neatly trimmed salt and pepper facial hair. Seeing he was indeed in luck, Jethro closed the door behind himself and started to make his way through the eclectic mix of office furniture.

"Evening Elio."

"Jethro Blacker," Elio Alboreto rumbled, looking up from what he was doing. "I thought I heard something about you being back in town."

Reaching the desk the younger man shook hands. "Only briefly I hope."

"Half your luck if you can, otherwise I may give you some of these to fill out," returned the SWA's second SIS alumnus, motioning to the papers on his desk. "Incident reports."

"Marisa's?"

"How did you guess? _This_ one involves an excavator," he thumped two fingers down on the offending document. Then his expression softened. "I can't blame her too much though, it's nothing worse than the sort of things you or I would have been up to as kids."

"I'm not convinced Ferro will accept 'following in my handler's footsteps' as an excuse for 'gets into trouble more frequently'."

"So what brings you here? Most sensible people are well and truly in bed by now."

Jethro paused while he gauged his next move. He and Monty had discussed this on the journey from Guiana, and decided the risk was worth it. Now he fished in a suit jacket pocket for something else his girl had helped input on.

Holding the folded slip of paper in the palm of one hand, he leaned against the desk. "Actually I wanted to pick your brains, quietly if possible."

"Shoot," there was caution in the tone.

"Cast your mind back to those heady days of the Circus…"

Elio held up a hand, "I'm sure Her Majesty's representatives had you sign the same confidentiality agreements I did…"

"Probably, but tell me: in your extensive years did you ever meet a woman going by the alias of 'Mary Christmas' or 'Vanessa Lye'?"

"Can't say those ring a bell… and your interest in her is?"

"That she's someone of interest… but someone I'd prefer the Agency didn't get its knickers in a twist over until we've a better feel for her."

And that was where the risk started. It was well known and accepted that Elio Alboreto bunked in the spare room of his old friend Pieri Lorenzo, chief of the Social Welfare Agency. The last thing however that Jethro or Monty wanted was for the Agency to get itself worked up over a threat which may not even exist and start sticking its nose where it was not wanted or, worse, instructing the fratello to deal with said threat prior to anything else. Not only would that eat valuable time, but he was also still on reasonable terms with many from Her Majesty's Secret Service; bridges which could be burnt only to the detriment of his and his partner's ability to undertake their jobs effectively… and to their safety. By talking to Elio he was relying on the man's discretion in an awkward situation and, possibly, that of his own ultimate boss...

_Still: in for a penny, in for a pound._

Unfolding the sheet of paper he placed it down on the heavy grained desk top to display a sketched mugshot in ballpoint pen. Depicted was a woman with dark hair and a face defined by strong features, eyes slanting exotically under heavy brows, back toward high cheekbones. It had been drawn on the plane table, Monty helping pick out finer details from her own observations.

"She doesn't look familiar at all?"

There was another pause while the other man studied the sketch.

"I can't say I recognise her. Do you know if she started before or after you?"

"Not sure."

Jethro picked up the picture and glanced at it briefly before stashing it again in a pocket. 'Mary' seemed to be filling a role similar to that he had occupied just before being turfed out of the SIS. Even allowing for his own mild fast-track, that made it a fair bet she had come up behind him. However, if there was nothing Elio could or would do to help, then there was little point in playing more cards than he needed to.

Out loud he sighed, "Ah well, you win some, you lose some… cheers all the same. Sorry for the interruption."

The elder handler looked between him and the desk and gave his own sigh. "Frankly it's probably time to give this away for the night anyway; I'm sure it will still be here for me in the morning."

"Death, taxes and paperwork right?"

"Something like that."

There was a jingle as he extracted a set of keys from his desk draw and collected the coat hanging from the back of his chair.

"Bit late to be making the trip back to Rome isn't it?" noted Jethro, nodding at the black BMW key fob hanging amongst shiny metal shards.

"You're one to talk…" Alboreto glanced at his watch, "…perhaps a bit, but it's not too bad of a run at this time of night, and I feel like laying down in my own bed."

With that the pair headed for the office door. Before turning to go their opposite ways however, Elio stopped his younger compatriot. "While I remember; there's a trattoria about ten minutes up the road a few of us, staff and handlers, frequent from time to time. It's game night tomorrow night and you're welcome to join us."

The other handler paused, "I don't know… the quacks should have released Monty by then…"

"It's Liverpool vs. A.C. Milan."

"Christ, twist my arm why don't you?"

"I'm sure young Monique can live without you for a whole evening," there was silence as Elio let that sink in. "Sleep on it and get back to me tomorrow… either that or one of us will touch base before heading over."

* * *

><p>Giving her Jose one last wave, Henrietta trotted down the crunching gravel path toward the cyborg dormitory. Dog bite aside, she rubbed at the dressing again, it had been a good day: she had added one more Padan to her kill count, there had been gelato from Jose, and the mission had been successful, which had made Jose happy. Then there had been Monty in the hospital; the dog bite was almost worth it to be able to bring that bit of news back to the others.<p>

Her face clouded a little; not many cyborgs turned down her invitation to tea though… had that happened with the other girl before? She couldn't remember… it may have…

Entering the front door, the little brunette cast one eye over the notice board to see if there was anything new amongst the old newsletters and notices from Ferro. Finding no change however she continued on up the stairs toward the room she shared with Rico. Someone had been busy here through the day, and Christmas decorations which had until recently festooned the corridors were now nowhere to be seen, bar the occasional sad sliver of tinsel escaped from its shining boa.

The room also was similarly empty, her blonde roommate nowhere in sight. On her lower berth of their bunk bed however, someone had kindly left her Amati violin case and she briefly opened it to check the P90 it contained was still secured. Happy the sub machine gun remained untouched, she took off her winter coat, a present from Jose, and hung it carefully on a wooden hanger in her wardrobe. Then she unshipped her FN Five-seveN from its holster and removed the latter to place it, also from Jose, in a drawer. Turning the pistol over in her hands then, the girl seemed to come to a decision and, picking up her weapons, exited back into the corridor.

Trotting up the hall until she came to another room, the little cyborg knocked…

"Enter!"

…before cracking the door to peek inside. Opening it fully she was greeted by a chorus of voices.

"Hello Henrietta."

"Evening."

"Umm, hello everyone," she returned.

As she had suspected, Rico had made herself comfortable here, laying stomach down across the lower bunk, kicking her feet whilst she flipped through a magazine. On the bunk above, one of this room's owners held a similar pose, albeit a much stiller one. She was also reading, though from where she stood at the door, Henrietta couldn't make out what; but she suspected the book would be far outside her own interests.

The room's last occupant now turned from where she was pulling down a final string of tinsel, balanced precariously on top of a lowboy dresser, one foot placed delicately between two stuffed bears whilst the other waved around vaguely in the air to steady her.

"Hi 'Etta," Triela's eyes flicked to the dressing on her sister's forearm, "I heard someone say you were at the medical wing. How is it?"

"It doesn't hurt, not like the actual bite did, but it does itch a little."

"I heard it was inflicted by a _toy poodle_."

"_Claes!_"

Now the brown haired girl scratched self-consciously at the bandage, before holding up her violin case. "Do you mind if I clean my guns here?"

Finally managing to unhook the string of tinsel she had been somewhat ineffectually batting away at, the SWA's senior cyborg got herself back on two feet, careful not to step on any of her bears, before sliding off the dresser to the floor.

"Sure," she gestured to a small table in the middle of the room, "make yourself at home."

Taking the invitation, Henrietta sat down whilst her elder rolled up the decoration she carried to slip it into a cardboard box resting on the carpet. Opening up her case the younger girl unclipped its top panel, where an instrumentalist would have been able to store spare strings, polishing rags and the various sundries of their art, to extract a neatly packaged cleaning kit. Closing the case again she set it down on the floor, before unzipping the kit and neatly laying its contents out. Happy everything was accounted for, she removed the magazine from her Five-seveN, ensuring the gun was empty and racked the slide a few times just to be certain. Jose had already checked it before sending her back to the dormitory, but he had also taught her good habits and, pointing it away from anyone she pulled the trigger once.

_Click._

Sure now it was unloaded, small hands depressed and pushed back a button on the side, along with the gun's slide and barrel, which she then removed from the grip completely.

As she lifted up a rag to commence the actual cleaning, Triela joined her at the table.

"So you're all patched up then?

"Yes. Jose said to get you to make sure the bandage stayed on."

_Nice of Jose to _ask_ first before volunteering me._

Out loud however the senior girl said, "I can do that, just see me before you go to bed and again in the morning at breakfast."

"Thank you Triela," now she paused in what she was doing to deliver her next bit of news. "Monty is back as well… I saw her at the hospital."

"I know."

Henrietta looked slightly crestfallen. "You know?"

"Yeah, Kara saw Mr. Blacker's car in the car park when she came back in… I think she's probably told _everyone_ by now…"

"Oh."

Triela gave a wry chuckle, "…last I saw Rachel was trying to talk her and a few of the older girls out of paying Monty some sort of visit."

"Monty's here?"

Three heads turned to look at Rico.

"You didn't _know_ Rico?"

"No, I was probably with Jean when Kara came through; so you can tell _me_ she's back if you want 'Etta!" Now the little blonde looked up from what was revealed to be one of Triela's magazines and smiled beneficently. "But that's exciting isn't it? Monty's not here very often."

"No Rico, no she isn't."

Silence descended briefly as Henrietta finished cleaning her Five-seveN and, dabbing a little gun oil on its workings, started to slot the pistol back together. Feeling the slide seat with a click she racked it back, pointed the muzzle away and dry fired once again to check the action. Setting it aside she then lifted her P90 out of its case and started to field strip it as well. However, as she did so her face started to cloud.

"What's up?"

Pushing up the butt plate of the subgun, Henrietta slid its hammer group out into her hand, before looking across the table at her elder sister. "Well... when I was in the hospital, I invited Monty to tea... and she said 'no'," the girl's face became distressed. "Virtually no-one says 'no'."

"I... don't think she came last time you invited her either."

"I've invited her before?"

Now Triela glanced up to catch her room-mate's eye, still perched on the top bunk: their friend had been becoming more forgetful of late... The senior girl shook that thought from her head, instead settling back in her chair to try and produce a way to explain Henrietta's current tea-related predicament gently to her. In truth, Monty was not overly friendly with any of the Agency cyborgs, but trying to get across that it was not a matter of her, Henrietta, being singled out could be... problematic.

Fortunately, innocent Rico came to the rescue. "Monty was probably just grumpy at being in the hospital. No-one likes being in hospital."

Triela grasped onto the lifeline with all the fervour of a drowning man, "Yes! She was probably just feeling out of sorts."

The brown haired cyborg perked up at that. "You're right. I'll ask her again once she's out."

"You do that."

Five minutes passed in companionable relative silence, until 'Etta slotted her P90 back together and replaced it in its case. Wiping the table down quickly, her cleaning kit was also packed up and returned to its stowage compartment before, bidding the elder girls goodnight, she and Rico headed for their own room.

As the door clicked shut, Claes stuck her head over the bed's parapet again. _"Coward."_

"What?"

"Letting her believe that if she asks again, Monty will somehow say 'yes'... you're as aware as I she's never going to."

"Okay then Miss _Social Awareness_; what was I _supposed_ to tell her? You know 'Etta has a habit of taking things personally."

Now the dark haired girl on the top bunk lowered her glasses to look over their tops, as a reproving teacher might to an errant student. "Oh, I don't know; the _truth_ perhaps? Now she's just going to have to go through exactly the same trauma all over again, and this time she'll _definitly_ take it personally."

At that, Triela let out a groan, slumping forward until her head connected with the wooden table top.

_Clonk._

"Well then why don't _you_ tell her?" she muttered, half to herself.

"Because I'm not senior cyborg _or_ resident den mother."

Claes only just managed to duck in time to avoid the flying magazine which scythed across her head to smack against the wall behind.

* * *

><p>"<em>...are yet to determine motive and police investigators are unwilling to speculate on whether the shooting is related to Northern Separatist activity. 'These are troubling times we live in, but we cannot afford to succumb to rumour and paranoi..."<em>

Monty changed the channel.

A nurse had been kind enough to scrounge her up a TV, though she was fairly certain someone, somewhere would be vetting what got through to the screen; a suspicion backed up by the disparity between her watch and the broadcast's time stamp. She wondered if was worth pointing out that doing so in her case was probably a waste of that person's effort. It was however, something to do… though a shooting in Rome, whilst mildly interesting, was not exactly wildly relevant to her own scope of operations.

Besides she had already seen the story twice, on two different channels, both of which seemed to have reached the stage of replaying the same footage they had previously in the hope something new would eventually crop up.

The rest of the newscasts didn't vary much either: money issues in the Eurozone, the US still unable or unwilling to pull itself out of the holes it had dug in Iraq, Afghanistan or its own fiscal system... unseasonably warm weather in Italy but with snow promised, though anything to do with the politics of that country never seemed to reach her.

_Bored. So bored._

Boredom made worse by the knowledge she had plenty to do once she was through waiting here; and there wasn't much hope of relief in the near future either. Jethro would be helping the domestic spooks through the fratello's recently collected information, looking for correlations with their own data; so despite his earlier promises, her chances of seeing him prior to release were minimal.

Aside from the possibility of being roped into that exercise, she herself still had a report on Moratti to complete; made all the more urgent by the man having somewhat inconveniently decided to go and disappear. With a bit of luck Ferro would also have finished having her film rolls developed, and another report would need to be filed around those...

There was a sound. A small, hesitant tap at the door, and Monty paused: no-one she generally wanted to talk with knocked like that. Slowly, her hand slid down the side of her bed to grasp for a firearm which was not there.

_Bollocks._

Firearms were prohibited in the medical wing for staff and cyborgs alike, except under strict supervision, and she'd yet to find a loophole for that blanket rule. Instead she loosened the sheets covering her, making certain her cotton pyjamas were not caught on anything.

"Enter."

There was a shuffling from outside, then the clunk of the latch unfastening, allowing the door to swing back. Cautiously a female head, mousey hair drawn up into a low maintenance topknot, poked itself into the gap.

"Umm... are you Monique Blacker?"

Monty cocked an eyebrow, body still poised for fight or flight, and her voice was dubious. "Yes?"

"Oh, good."

The face in the doorway brightened slightly, and was followed through the gap by the rest of its owner. From her bed, the young agent ran a critical eye over what now presented itself. The girl was taller than she had originally appeared, probably an inch or so taller than Monty herself in fact, and more solidly built, softening her outline; but the carriage seemed to make that frame shrink to something much less impactful. Like the haircut, her black clothes were basic, stylish and low maintenance; in a look favoured around fashion university districts on Sundays…

"Everyone says you spend most of your time travelling the world."

"What of it." The words were more challenge than question, a final warning to back off.

"Well, I was just wondering… what's it like? Have you had any really exciting missions or gone anywhere really interesting?"

Now Monty paused; she had been bored, but not bored enough to put up with _this_.

"You're new aren't you." Again, it was a deadpan statement, not a question.

"Yes, _umm..._ yes."

"Then lets be clear right now: I don't talk about what I do unless you have some specific, job-related, reason to know. Otherwise, see Ferro; she has all our reports and will be able to filter out what you can and cannot see." The bed-detained cyborg's eyebrows arched again, and she raised her voice slightly so it would carry. "I assume the others put you up to this."

"Umm."

Monty kept her voice up, "Come on, I know there's at least a _few_ of you back there."

That started a skittering and hushed argument out in the hall, then three more girls traipsed into view.

"Marisa, Kara and Allison: the three stooges, I should have known," she paused to stab a finger at the newcomer. "But tell me: just _what_, is _that_?"

Kara spoke up, "Monty, this is , general combat and rapid response, she's..."

"'_Cee?'_" her interjection cut the Asian girl off.

"For 'cyborg'..." said the girl in question quietly. "Danilo says..."

"Raych's new, she just wanted to put a face to a name," added Allison quickly.

"And so _you_ all decided to tag along and see what happened."

"We did not!"

"I did!"

"_Marisa!_"

Monty's voice was flat, "No, of course not: you snuck in here, unsupervised, and risked a bollocking from your handlers because you're all such _nice_ new friends."

"Triela comes in here by herself." That was Kara.

"_Triela_ is senior cyborg…"

"...and unlike _some_ uses her brain for more than just preventing her ears from banging together."

The visitors froze as a new voice entered their conversation, and slowly turned as one to its source.

"_Ms. Ferro_," Kara's voice was a squeak.

Standing behind the girls, Ferro surveyed the scene; a Macbook Pro tucked under one arm whilst the other held an expandable file case, stuffed full of papers. "I take it there is some reasonable explanation as to why your four are here without supervision?"

Kara looked around desperately, "Uhh... _Monty's_ supervising us!"

In bed Monty's face took on an expression of carefully painted incredulity, and the field manager looked back and forward between the two.

"Of _course_ she is. All of you can wait out in the foyer for me."

There was a second of silence, before Kara and Allison grabbed Raych and the three, plus Marisa scarpered out into the corridor, low voices still audible as they walked quickly away.

"_Sorry."_

"_For what?"_

"_For getting you all in trouble."_

"_That's ok, this is nothing... you should have seen the time when there was this excavator..."_

"_She's not very nice is she?"_

"_Who? Ferro or..."_

The latch clacked shut again as Ferro closed the door, blocking out the rest of that sentence.

"Jethro said he would be tied up with the intelligence team all day, and asked me to bring these down for you."

Crossing the vinyl floor, the suited woman placed her load within easy reach on the girl's bed, before removing the dregs of Monty's breakfast from a small, roll away table to the visitors' chair. Pulling it over she then fished in her breast pocket to remove a USB drive, the same one, Monty noted, as she had handed over in Zurich, which was placed down on the cheap, veneered surface with a click.

"That has your developed photos on it."

"Who else has seen this?" questioned the girl, picking up her laptop and setting it in front of her.

"Your handler has a copy, but aside from him just myself and the people in the photo lab. I took the physical negatives off them however; they're in that file case for you."

"Thank you."

Now the elder woman stood back up and gave a wry snort. "The amount of running around you're causing me of late you had _better _be..." She turned for the door. "...and speaking of, I must keep going. I told IT to give this room access to operations' secure intranet, so with some luck you should be able to plug in now."

Without waiting for a reply she was gone, heading the same direction as the four cyborgs had previously.

Giving the woman a minute to get clear, Monty slipped from beneath white covers and, padding bare footed across cool flooring, unclipped the file case's top. Inside were reams of paper, assumedly related somehow to what reports she had sent back to the SWA, and down the front had been stuffed a blue network cable along with her computer's power supply. Extracting both she quickly plugged them into the back of the laptop and ran them to the wall. The power point was easy to find and beside it she plugged into a red Ethernet port, sandwiched between two others wearing blue and white covers, forming flashes of colour against the otherwise plain wall.

Returning to bed, the girl opened up her network connections and ran her sign in, password and day code for the SWA's secure intranet, one of three physically separated networks Section 2 maintained on campus. The hard-wired red and blue lines belonged to operations and the medical departments respectively, whilst the white was a general system, and also the only one with access to the outside internet.

Presently her computer dinged, letting her know that she was now connected. Apparently IT had pulled its collective finger out for a change; not to mention was starting to become used to the concept of allowing a cyborg into the secure system. The first time she tried it had taken a joint visit from Jethro and Ferro, with a signed affidavit from Chief Lorenzo to get her so much as a log in, and even after that the tech weenies had been resistant in their electronic kingdom. Now, almost two years down the track, they finally seemed to be getting the idea.

Plugging in the USB Ferro had brought, Monty pulled its files onto her own machine and, making sure to wipe the thumb drive, started to browse what had appeared. Not all her photos were usable, and she had not really expected them to be... a problem compounded by the short lens and grainy ISO400 film forced on her by the low, overcast light of an Amazonian morning.

There were two individuals on the roll she was interested in, and it took the better part of half an hour to isolate out the most usable images of both. Cropping down her selections, she pumped both into the facial recognition database, noting it had been updated just that morning. Setting search priorities off their defaults to prioritise matches from outside of Italy, she put it to work.

This was going to take awhile, and Monty sat back to study the two pictures currently on the screen in front of her. Despite Hollywood's assertions, there was no flashing slideshow of images, just a progress bar showing the program as it sifted through terabytes of data, the little green line flickering back and forward under each picture as the code jumped from category to category, looking for a match.

Absent mindedly she started to massage at her freshly repaired arm. Had the photos not shared the same background, it would have been difficult to credit their subjects as related: one, a bearded revolutionary in olive drab; the other, a clean cut businessman working for an expanding freight company.

There were a few assumptions it was probably reasonably safe to make, the first being that the rebels were just one end of a supply chain: trading a natural resource for the tools of war, little interested in the conflict they helped fuel outside their own nation.

In all reality it was the man from Hermes whom held more interest. Most likely he was just a middleman, a puppet on a string for some other party, but of the two he was the more likely to present her with a key to tracing everything back to the Padania, or to at least sort out that particular arms supply line...

...and, he was just one path to follow for that matter. Right now, hopefully, Jethro would be chasing up Anagnos, Marittima and Moratti with the domestic spooks.

_And on the subject of that last..._

She was about to open up the document for her report when the computer dinged; it had found a match.

Unfortunately it was not for the face she had been hoping for, but rather for the revolutionary; one Juan Camilo Umina, a Lieutenant in the _Ejército de Liberación Nacional_, the Colombian National Liberation Army. Monty frowned slightly at that and, minimising the window for a moment, brought up a separate database.

Thirty seconds later, her suspicions were confirmed: the international sale of goods was outside of the ELN's usual income streams, having historically relied on the kidnapping of foreigners and collection of mafia style "taxes" from those unfortunate enough to reside within its territories. Moreover, she was fairly certain the south of Colombia was controlled by the ELN's larger sometime rival FARC; which meant that there was either closer co-operation between the two than current wisdom suggested, or the ELN was running a great risk to shore itself up financially… amongst other possibilities.

Minimising that window as well, she opened up her document on Moratti. Either way, it would be something to keep in the back of her mind, and possibly chase up if she had a spare moment. Right now, she had a report to finish. With a bit of luck, by the time she was done, she'd have a match on her Hermes man and be released back into the world.

* * *

><p>"<em>...second sniper shooting in the space of 48 hours. Police have stated that while the M.O used in the second incident does appear similar to that of yesterday's killing, they would not be able to make firm confirmation until ballistic test results were returned. So far however, no link between the two murders or victims has been found."<em>

"If we're not careful, we'll find ourselves roped into that."

Watching as the waiter approached their table, Jethro mentally ticked off what items clinked together on the man's tray: three beers, a quarter-pitcher of the house red and glasses of desert wine and lemon-lime and bitters. Despite having been at the SWA longer than half the people seated, as eternal "new bloke" the first round was his and, content what he saw tallied up with what had been ordered, turned to whom had spoken.

"I don't recall the Brass ringing."

"Yeah, well; the government's not desperate enough yet are they? Give it another two or three days of no results and they will, you mark my words," returned the blonde haired Alessandro sitting beside him.

Threading through close packed furniture, arranged underneath wooden rafters, the waiter finally made it to their secluded table rear table, well removed from the last weak rays of winter sunlight seeping through the windows. Doling out drinks to its occupants, finishing with the lemon, lime and bitters for Jose, tonight's designated driver, the man took his leave.

"So Blacker, I'm told a few of our girls had a run in with yours this morning," started a spiky haired man across the table in the melodic lilt of the Irish.

Jethro eyed Brian McDonnell, handler of Allison across the top of his drink. "News on me mate. I've not managed to catch Monty all day, not after I got trapped in with Priscilla."

"You know, _most_ men wouldn't consider spending a day with our resident _intelligista_ a bad thing."

"Don't let Petra hear you say that, 'Sandro."

"Ha ha, _funny man_, Brian."

From Jethro's other side, Michele Pagani gestured across the table with his wine glass, "Jose, Elio, you two just be glad you both have girls too young to give you issues."

Jose just made a grim face into his drink, but the hulking former SIS field commander took a swig from his own bottle of Peroni. "And I'm thankful every day for it; the issues aren't any less though, just _different_. Marisa does _plenty_ to add to my grey hair count, and unfortunately the kitchen staff _like_ her... and she likes them."

"Not a problem with Petra, but I can see it'd make life difficult."

"Tell me about it," Elio held his beer up so that the light shone through it, "which is, Jethro, why we escape down here once in awhile."

Jethro looked around, glancing at the television positioned in easy sight of the table to make sure it was still on the news. "I can see the appeal, probably not exactly where I'd be taking Monty on a date but..."

There was a pause, before Brian started, "...and a good thing too. This trattoria is _strictly_ free from any of our girls. _Ever._"

"We love them and all..." put in Alessandro.

"...but everyone needs a break from time to time," continued Michele. "So we set this place aside as the 'adults only' escape."

"No, that's up the road and rents by the hour."

"Of course _you'd_ know Brian."

"Look who's talking 'Sandro."

"In seriousness though," put in Elio, bringing the conversation back on track. "Not a word to Monty if you'd be so kind."

"On pain of pain Blacker," added Alessandro. "On pain of _pain_."

In his own seat, Jethro slipped into the relaxed atmosphere as open banter bounced back and forward across glasses and woodwork, leaving half an ear open to occasionally join in. Living on the road, it wasn't a situation he often found himself with access to, and in many ways it felt alien, like looking through a pane of glass; a fleeting glimpse of another life, one which welcomed and was enjoyable to dip a toe into now and then, but would always be detached from his personal reality.

'_No cyborgs' huh?_

"So d'ye reckon he's Padania?"

"Who?"

Brian, who was now onto his third beer and getting broader, whether by accident or design, by the minute, waved his bottle vaguely at the TV set. "This bastad wit' t' rifle."

"Oh _leave off!_ No girls and no talking work."

"T'ain't work,'s _current affairs_."

"It _will _be."

"And just for raising the topic," noted Jethro, polishing off his own drink, "I believe the next round is yours… so flag down a waiter, the game'll be starting soon."

* * *

><p>Leaning back in her seat, Monty gave a sigh and rubbed at tired eyes, then looked around to rest them from the glowing screen in front of her. The room in which she now resided was Spartan still, but lacked the style free, antiseptic whiteness of that she had left behind in the medical wing. Here instead there were warm carpets underfoot and tall windows set in one wall, heavy drapes currently drawn tight against the night time cold. Ventilation was provided in lieu of a breeze by modern, galvanised steel ducting, suspended from high, ancient ceilings, lending an industrial edge to the old building as it bore warm currents to her and the other occupants of the handlers' on-campus quarters. That edge was mirrored in the twin bed, pushed up against one wall, and glass-topped work bench on which her computer now sat, its network cable snaking away into another red-fronted Ethernet port; unavailable in the cyborg dormitory and her primary excuse for avoiding the place like the plague.<p>

The practice of bunking her in one of the handlers' accommodation spare rooms had originated just after her activation. The SWA, fresh from a successful proof-of-concept in Petra and still in the process of readying cyborg dorm beds for the next wave of new girls, had decided to give her a temporary billet in the handlers' wing. That decision came with the added benefit that, since Jethro was living on-campus at the time as well, it would be more convenient to help expedite the fratello's already optimistically frenetic deployment schedule.

As her role had become more defined, and given the transient nature of her and her handler's existence on campus, that original arrangement of convenience had somehow never been terminated, instead becoming an established norm. While Jethro enjoyed a permanently assigned room, admittedly mostly used to store the detritus of jobs passed, Monty would collect the keys to whatever bed was available from Ferro upon arrival, and return them prior to departure; just like any other hotel. Except that this hotel had an intelligence archive, fully equipped office and secure, standalone network installed: which beat the usual wifi and business centre hands down.

Plus it was technically off-limits to unsupervised cyborgs; and therefore devoid enough of super powered adolescents to give her some chance of getting her work done.

On her laptop screen the fratello's run in with Baldo de Moratti was laid out in plain black and white pixels across virtual sheets of A4. Taking another sip of the coffee resting next to her, an additional perk to having left the medicos far behind, she scrolled back to the top of the page. One more read through should do it, then she would be free to get stuck into trying to hunt down who the mark from Hermes was, while Jethro kept the domestic spooks happy…

_On that subject, where _was_ he?_ _One of these days she was going to have to put a bell on that man._

From the hall came the clump of feet on wooden stairs and male voices, all recognisable. Breathing a sigh, equal parts relief and exasperation, Monty rolled back her chair and, finding a pair of shoes, headed for the door.

Outside, Jethro and Brian helped guide a somewhat unsteady Alessandro Ricci up the steps, the result of a Milan win in overtime, and onto the landing, their two remaining companions bringing up the rear, Jose having elected to head home rather than sleep on site. Liverpool supporters Elio and Jethro had favoured leaving the man somewhere embarrassing, preferably pantsless, but fellow A.C. fan Michele vetoed that suggestion; and as neither Englishman had partaken in the UK's proud hooligan tradition, they remained as such hazily sceptical at their ability to fight off the more numerous Italians.

"Just remember Sandro; you'll never walk alone," put in the younger British handler.

"Not this drunk he won't…" returned Brian from under the man's other arm, "...jus' be glad it's a Saturday tomorrow, mate."

"Haha, screw you both… and _we_ still won."

"Next time Blacker, I say we leave his ungrateful arse at the bottom of the stairs for Ferro to find in the morning."

From further up the hall came the click of a latch.

"Do I even _want _to hear this?"

The voice was flat, not angry but edging on exasperated. Looking up, Jethro caught sight of his cyborg standing by the door of the room next to his, dressed in her "around the house" clothes; eyebrow raised and hands on hips, which were kicked to one side in a picture of unimpressed femininity.

Sandro's head lolled to one side. "Oop,_ now_ you're in trouble."

Ignoring him, Jethro was about to reply when Brian spoke up instead. "Now Monty, I'm sure you're not going t' begrudge your handler here a trip down the pub with some mates for a drink and the game."

"Likely not, but it'd make him much easier to manage if he let me know where he was going first, lest he get in trouble... _more_ trouble."

"Come on lass, quit griping and give us a hand down here."

Her partner stopped at the last comment, turning to give Elio a small headshake, before handing Sandro over and stepping toward the girl. Placing a hand on either shoulder he leant down, causing her to recoil slightly.

"You smell like _beer_."

"Sorry luv." Straightening back up again, Jethro turned around to the other handlers. "I think I'd best bid you all a pleasant evening and good night."

Moving one palm instead to the small of Monty's back, he unlocked his own room with the other, guiding her into it and closing the door behind them. Safely on the far side of the woodwork, the Brit stood up fully, some of the pseudo-drunken stoop and wobble falling away, whilst his partner rounded to look at him expectantly.

"So… I take it I should have texted."

There was a pause. "It would make my life easier; next time I just might put a rec in to Ferro to let me put a bell on you."

"She'd probably sign it too."

"She probably would."

There was a pause as Jethro skirted around her to sit down on the queen bed, squeezed up against one wall by a large, lockable compactus which dominated the space like the metaphorical eight hundred pound gorilla. Bending down to unlace his shoes, the spy glanced up to eye his girl.

"Not the most successful day?"

"Not precisely. I had some uninvited visitors this morning…"

"Heard about that."

"…and none of the database I've access too could throw up a match for our jet-setting Hermes rep."

That got her handler's attention and he stopped where he had been starting to remove his tie. "Really?"

"Really: AISE, AISI, Guardia and so on… nothing; which means he either hasn't been flagged up before, has no record or…"

"…or is very well hidden… or someone's keeping him to themselves." Halting, he pinched the bridge of his nose, then held up a hand. "Do you mind if we pick this up tomorrow? Because you're right: I _do_ smell like beer and could use a shower and sleep."

Monty opened her mouth to say something sharp, then thought better of it. "Tomorrow… I've plenty to get on with tonight anyway."

With that she headed for the door.

"Where're you off to?"

Stopping mid-step, hand on the knob, the girl turned to her partner. "My _own_ room... and my _own_ bed."

* * *

><p>The soft electronic buzz of a phone alarm slowly roused Jethro from sleep, beckoning him toward wakefulness. From beneath warm covers, one pyjama clad arm reached out to shut the thing off, not that it had probably been required…<p>

Fuzzily, he took stock of his surroundings: there was a big gaping hole in his world somewhere and it had not let him rest even remotely soundly.

"Monty?" The word was at best a mumble, barely audible. Then louder. "Monty?"

Cautiously the spy slid an arm out across the bed's other side, searching for the soft form of his partner.

_Nothing._

Now he was awake, worry and adrenalin suddenly surging through him as he flicked a light on to look wildly around the room... small writing desk, chair, compactus with a bright red fez atop it... and slowly started to relax again.

_Well, at least now he was one step closer to getting out of bed._

Leaving the warm, incandescent filament burning for the time being, Jethro picked his watch up off the bedside table: 6am, the brown faced and sharply detailed Linde Werdelin's GMT hand reminding him that was an hour ahead of Greenwich. Unfortunately, as the old saying went, "crime doesn't take the weekend off"... and it likely rang true for terrorism as well. So Saturday or no, it was probably time to get moving.

Sliding regretfully from under the duvet he scampered toward his small bathroom and the toasty embrace of a hot shower.

* * *

><p>In the darkness of predawn, Monty awoke to the soft electronic buzz of her partner's phone alarm the next room over. Not that it had probably been required; there was a big, gaping Jethro-shaped hole in her bed and world at the moment, and it had not let her rest soundly.<p>

From under warm covers, one slender arm snaked out to flick on the bedside light, then dropped to pick up her black-faced, three dial, Heuer Camaro chronograph. The red painted chrono-seconds hand stood stock still at the 12 o'clock position, but below it the central small-seconds dial swept around its tiny circuit, edging the watch's main display toward one-past six in the am.

_Probably time to get moving then._

Leaving the light on she took a minute to make sure the vintage timepiece was fully wound, twiddling its large crown back and forth against the main spring, then placed it down and pushed her covers back. Pausing, she glanced at the position usually held by her partner, now achingly empty... well at least she hadn't had to deal with a drooled on pillow, errant arm or being tossed around as he shifted and dreamt. Maybe there was an upside here.

Padding across carpeted floors the girl made her way to the loaner accommodation's small attached bathroom, before starting the shower running to bring hot water through whilst she stripped off, placing her pyjamas in a neat pile. The wash itself was little more than a quick in and out to warm up and get the sleep out of her eyes; towel off, blow dry... her open sponge bag yielded a brush, a few quick strokes of which settled her hair back into its usual sleek, 60's styling.

She pulled a wry smile in the mirror at that. In its eternal quest to try and turn a profit from the cyborg program, someone in the medical department had come up with the brainstorm of permanently styled hair, for which she had been the guineapig. The project itself had been canned after more grounded minds pointed out that people tended to change their hairstyles occasionally, and that most would probably consider a full scalp transplant a somewhat extreme method by which to do so. Still though, it was convenient, and even if the hair itself had been a failure, few could accuse her and Jethro of not pulling their weight in trying to make the Agency cash-positive.

That train of thought carried her through teeth brushing and back out to the bedroom. A charcoal, turtleneck skivvy went on to top similarly hued leggings, emerging one after the other from a black and orange vulcanised-cardboard suitcase, followed by a tan leather holster which she affixed in the small of her back. Picking up her PPK from the bedside table, the cyborg checked it had a round chambered and that the safety was on before securing it. One of the upsides of the handler's block was that there was no ban on loaded firearms, admittedly on the assumption that only handlers would be billeted under its roof, but so far no-one had pulled her up for carrying around campus.

_No-one had caught her yet._

Happy the gun was firmly stowed, she extracted her boldly pattered Mondrian day dress from where it hung somewhat forlornly in the oversize wardrobe beside her suit, and slipped it over her head, adjusting the fabric's fall with a practiced hand to make sure her gun didn't print. Knee length, high heeled gogo boots, watch and bone trench finished the look along with a spritz of perfume. Pointing the black and gold atomizer of Bvlgari's Jasmin Noir into the air she pumped it once, then twice, before shaking the container to bring forth a light sound of liquid. The third and fourth pumps coughed out thin results and, adding another shot for good measure, she walked through the floating mist of scent.

That bottle was however almost empty, a trip into Rome may be in order to pick up a new one.

Taking another glance in the mirror the girl gave herself a final pat down: watch, wallet, phone, keys, firearm... all present and correct.

Outside, the corridor was deserted, and she made her way quickly downstairs into the wintery pre-dawn. Stepping through the building's doors the cold hit her, rasping like sandpaper at her face and filtering slowly, but inexorably through layers of clothing.

Pausing for a moment she exhaled a puff of steam, breath condensing thickly in the air as the only cloud in sight, well below the unblemished arch of the sky. Eastward the inky blackness of night was starting to give way to deep purple hues, as above the last few stars added silent goodbyes to the quiet before turning in themselves.

Stepping off stone steps onto a gravel path, Monty headed for the refectory, loose ends of her thigh-length coat flapping around her legs. It seemed for once the weatherman was going to be correct. While it might be cold now, a clear and sunny day had the chance to again warm things up for the people of Italy; beckoning them outdoors for a mid-winter respite.

Crunching stone beneath her feet carried the girl the short distance to the SWA's communal mess, and passing through its rushing air curtain to the warm interior she looked around. A couple of tables were already occupied: a few staffers here and a group she recognised as _Squadra della Risposta Tattica_ personnel there; though a new face studied her longer before being elbowed by one of its compatriots. Most of them however only glanced up curiously, then went back to what they had been doing.

This early on a weekend however the hall was still fairly quiet, the crash and bang of pots and dixies filtering out through the kitchen's long bain-marie, accompanied by the waft of bacon, beans and sauté mushrooms. While hardly classic Italian fare, hot food more suited the weather, and with the organisation's increasingly international membership (not to mention the cyborgs' own voracious appetites) the basics of a full English breakfast had been added to the menu; which the girl instructed the steward behind its servery to make extensive use of.

The man, a boy really, was one she had not seen before, and as he passed her plate under the lamps she decided to try her luck. "I'll have copies of The London and Financial Times, and _La Repubblica_ as well."

There was a pause as the boy looked confused, glancing around, and Monty pushed a little harder. "I'm in the handlers' accommodation, room forty-three if you want to confirm it."

Now her opposite's face firmed. "Sorry Miss, but unless you can produce some staff ID I can't hand those over."

"Check with your chef, tell him _Monty Blacker_ is here."

"Just me and an apprentice here right now I'm afraid, and Chef won't appreciate a phone call at this hour."

_Bollocks._

That was annoying: if one of the older staff were present they may have been able to overrule the rulebook for her... but no such luck. Taking her plate, the cyborg placed it down on her tray and headed for the toast and coffee tables, sparing a moment to glare balefully at the rack of day old and carefully vetted newspapers made available for the SWA's general populace. Placing some bread on the conveyor toaster, she set about drawing a double strength cappuccino. Whether the frothed milk was worth the effort right now was debatable, but her toast would take a minute or so anyway, and it was something to occupy her hands until two lightly browned, wholemeal slices dropped into the machine's bottom hopper.

Loading the last plate and cup onto her tray, Monty headed toward where two staffers were just getting up to leave. As they walked away she swung past, swiping the paper which had been left amongst their detritus of plates and mugs.

Taking a seat at the back of the room, with a wall behind and good view of the entrance, she unloaded her tray and inspected her prize: _La Repubblica_... the local rag, but it was current and beat nothing, even if it lacked the international focus she'd prefer. On the front page was a colour map of Rome with callouts and pictures over the _rioni_ of Ponte and Aventino, with "_Sniper a Piede Libero!_" emblazoned in black Garamond Condensed above it. Taking her first sip of coffee, she flicked to the world section.

She was just starting to consider another cup when someone dropped two more collections of freshly printed news sheet in front of her. Waiting half a heartbeat, the girl slowly looked up from where she had moved to the financial columns, just starting a special on the still missing Moratti, to where Jethro stood across the table from her.

"This seat occupied?"

"I was saving it for my partner... Maybe you've seen him? Six-foot-ish, brown hair, sideburns, tendency to occasionally act like a small child _or come rolling in late and tipsy after a football match_."

He sighed. "Ok, point taken. Sorry, I'll call next time."

Depositing his own breakfast on the table and sinking down opposite her, the crisply suited man gestured at the newspapers he had just brought. "Those are for you as well by the way."

Folding _La Repubblica_ away and putting it aside for later reading, Monty selected a copy of the Financial Times. Inspecting the front page she noted it was dated today and, biting into her toast, started to skim the headlines.

Polishing off the rest of his coffee, her handler glanced across his own steaming breakfast. "So what was on your agenda for today?"

If she noted the use of past-tense his girl showed no outward sign of it, but kept her voice low in reply. "I was going to have a stab at manually hunting down the chap from Hermes, maybe try and give Triela or Hilshire a prod, see if any of the latter's Europol contacts could shed some light on what is happening with Moratti."

"And then we were on the indoor range in the afternoon right?"

"That was the thinking."

Pausing, Jethro collected his thoughts. "You might need to shelve the morning's plans I'm afraid, I'll be wanting you in with the spooks and I for today."

Monty cocked a questioning eyebrow as, on the other side of the room, Jose and Henrietta made their way inside, and motioned for her partner to keep his voice down as he continued.

"You've had a chance to run that photo data now, and were on the ground so may pick up something I missed or forgot. Besides, who knows: comparing against what the domestic crowd have may cough up some other avenues by which to ferret the Hermes chap out."

"Time?"

"8am-ish at the spook-pit," standing he picked up his coffee cup, reaching across the table for his partner's. "Want another?"

"Is the Pope Catholic?"

Throwing her a happy half grin, her handler headed for the espresso machine.

As he turned away, she caught Henrietta's brown bob-cut in the corner of an eye, changing vectors toward her. Opening the Financial Times to its second page, Monty buried her nose in it.

"Good morning Monty."

"_Mmph,"_ replied the elder cyborg, still not tearing her attention from the obtusely salmon-pink stock in front of her.

"Umm... did you think anymore about coming to tea?"

"I don't recall promising to do so."

"...just, it is the weekend now and we have another one on this afternoon and..."

_Now _Monty looked up from her paper. "Henrietta. I _said_ I was busy and I _meant_ it the first time; so do me a favour and don't ask again."

The younger girl looked momentarily stunned, features seemingly unable to decide between being shocked or furious.

"Now _run along_."

Balling her fists, 'Etta let out a small, frustrated noise before spinning on her heel and marching off in a huff toward where Jose was just receiving two plates from the kitchen, nose in the air.

* * *

><p>The "Spook Pit" was intra-organisational slang for what designated officially, if somewhat less excitingly by Section 2: Conference Room Basement One. Situated in an old wine cellar, it had quickly found favour among the Agency's small intelligence community as, despite technology's advancements, there were still few better defences against eavesdropping than twenty or thirty feet of solid earth and stone. Thus it had gained the name and an understanding of being the unofficial dominion of those dealing in a primary currency of information and secrets.<p>

Trotting down rough steps, Monty stayed subconsciously over the red line some health and safety type had un-helpfully painted straight down their centre, feet finding the worn indents left by those who had trod this same path for centuries. Reaching the basement level the girl looked to her left, where blocked in arches defined the edge of a long corridor, stretching away in the yellow illumination of caged lamps. Down there lay the familiar territory of the Agency's physical archives and, further along, the secure red network's server room.

That wasn't where she was headed today though, and instead she turned to an arched door, immediately on the right, leading off the corridor end, its iron studded oak panels hardened now by age and environment into something tougher than tank armour. Knocking out one of the agency-wide "all clear" signals against the gnarled surface, she then tapped a six digit code into the key pad mounted beside it, unconsciously running finger tips across the buttons to smear any prints or other telltales, and twisted the handle to disappear inside.

"Ciao Monty! Your handler's nipped out for a minute, but make yourself at home!"

On the far side of another set of stone arches, Priscilla turned back to the paper-strewn surface in front of her, gesturing for a man in a red, gingham check shirt to inspect something there. His eyes flicked over the new arrival, lingering a little longer than would possibly have been deemed polite, before turning to look at what was being pointed out to him on the large, white, tulip based meeting table; its clean curves at odds with rustic surrounds.

Ducking under an arch and around the table so she could face the door, Monty set down the file case Ferro had left with her on one of the z-shaped, heavy based swivel chairs and unlatched it to extract her computer and power supply. Setting the Mac up she fished around in the table's central trough to find a power point, at the same time retrieving a red network cable and plugging in.

The arches around this room's far reaches had been filled too, block work either rendered in white or faced by sound-absorbing panels to mute the hard surfaces' boom and echo. Suspended from the low ceiling, large, spherical steel lamp-shades hung along the ovoid table's centreline, illuminating it but little else, to leave the space's edges in shadow.

_It probably wouldn't hurt to give this place a bit of a walk around._

There was another dull rap at the door and Jethro slipped through, a coffee in each hand. Spying that his partner had already arrived, the man made a beeline across the room, placing one of the cups down in front of her.

"I assume you wanted one?" and was rewarded with a small smile for the effort as his girl took a sip.

Now Priscilla stopped what she had been working on in order to rest her chin on one hand, turning a flirtatiously bemused expression on the handler. "And where might _mine_ be, Mr. Blacker?"

"Perhaps you just weren't _persuasive_ enough Ms. Meleori," returned Jethro, giving Monty's shoulder a little squeeze.

"Oh, I can be _very_ persuasive."

"Too late now luv, coffee-bird's flown the coop."

"Aww..."

Tapping in her login for the operations network, Monty glanced around the table. "So I assume someone wants to bring me up to speed with where you arrived yesterday?"

"Tough to know where to start really..."

Priscilla shrugged, "Well, why don't we start with what we do have something on and work from there?"

Now the room's solitary cyborg fixed the first speaker with a gaze. "And this is?"

"Oh God, I'm sorry!" The female analyst jerked back from the table to where she could see everyone. "This is Genco Ribisi... he must have been hiding when you were last through."

Holding out her hand to shake as Genco stepped over, Monty studied what stood before her. The gingham shirt was supported by slim, dark jeans and topped with a patched tweed sports jacket and knitted tie. On his face, a set of eyebrow glasses finished off the impression of hip intellectualism.

"It's a pleasure to meet you Ms. Blacker... I've heard a lot about you; both from the reports..." now he glanced at the handler standing behind her, "...and in person. I look forward to working together."

"Well, as long as you don't make any stupid beginner mistakes..." releasing her grip, Genco shared a quick, nervous glance with Priscilla; fortunately a moment lost on Monty whom continued. "So what _do_ you know?"

"Umm... yeah," Ribisi scrabbled around on the table before producing an A4 notebook. "We tried chasing up some of those Genoa shipments off the Anagnos Ledger but... well, it's a bit like looking for a needle in a haystack of needle shaped hay."

Beside him, Priscilla shrugged. "Honestly, unless we're actually present when the ship comes in..."

"Actual ship or metaphorical ship?"

The woman gave Jethro a look. "_Actual_ ship... unless we're present when the ship_ment _arrives, we've little chance of intercepting anything which might be smuggled in. We've flagged for the _Guardia_ to quietly up their inspections on shipments from Turkey and Cyprus but... I wouldn't hold my breath."

"I did try running down a few of the container codes too," added Genco. "...but most had already left the country and those remaining were empty or being readied for another shipment."

"Which shouldn't be that surprising," put in Monty, "if these people are even half competent they'd have any arms out and gone before the salt spray had time to dry."

"And it's not that difficult to change a container code..." Releasing his partner, Jethro spun to lean against the table. "...half the metal floating around out there doesn't even _use_ ISO6346, and the chaps tracking this stuff aren't exactly looking for paint touch-ups and grinder marks."

Monty took a sip of her coffee. "Ok, what about the shipments going to Limassol and Odessa?"

Again, Priscilla shrugged. "Not really our field. We were contemplating flagging it with AISE, but Ferro suggested we check if you two were intending on chasing them up yourselves first."

Jethro glanced at his partner. Personally he would prefer to do Odessa himself, but there were only so many balls one could juggle at once and sometimes, something had to be dropped... like it or not.

"Lets see where we land today..."

"...we'll figure out what our next move is from there and what can/needs to be palmed off to others."

The SWA's intelligence superintendent nodded, before again turning to the table. "Actually the former Soviet States might not be a bad place to start. The hardware from the aeroplane you said was Russian, so I think there might be some validity in the theory that it's being brought overland into Turkey and dispatched from there."

"The only possible fly in the ointment of course being that the Padania of late seems to have been gearing up to deal with cyborgs," added Ribisi, "the list you took off the plane was all small calibres."

"True," replied his boss, "but I'm sure there's plenty of regular folk around in the anti-terrorist community on whom those will work just fine."

The young man glanced at Monty again, almost in apology for having brought the subject up, before turning back to his notebook. "Other than that, I started sifting through the Monaco files, Anagnos Ledger and the snippet you picked up in Istanbul looking for correlations."

"Anything?"

"Not so far, not yet. I wish there was more to the Istanbul data, because whoever that list belongs to is definitely involved," he glanced between the two fratello members. However when they made no response he continued, "Umm... there's regular entries which line up date wise with Anagnos shipments coming into Lemesos and Genoa, terminating at Hydrapaşa or Mersin and that airfield you checked out. It's probably another good indicator that Turkey is being used as a transhipment point."

"Anything else I should know?"

The analyst looked at the girl, "That's about as far as we've gotten I'm afraid."

"Ok, so what of the companies involved?"

"Now that we've had a bit more luck with," piped up Priscilla brightly, "I had a word with an old friend in the _Guardia_ and picked his brains too, along with my own digging. Hermes is _definitely_ owned by Anagnos, and the capital raised from share issue is nowhere _near_ enough to have started up the number of projects it has since the takeover. The parent is barely solvent out of its own pocket too; all of _its_ capital is being pumped into it by _Marittima Italiana S.p.A._"

The woman paused for a second to sip at a glass of water. "From there, things get a little... more complicated."

Picking up a lever-arch file which had been teetering on the top of a pile, she handed it to Monty. "Because the company's publicly listed, it has plenty of share holders. To make things easier we narrowed down the field to people or organisations that hold positions on the board, or control portfolios worth over two percent of _Marittima's_ total value. Quite a few holdings seem totally legitimate, some spiral through such a tangled web that we know there has to be_ something_ at the other end of it, but just haven't gotten there yet… and to be honest we've run into a few stonewalls as well, plain and simple."

Flicking quickly through the file, the cyborg looked up. "I assume you've not had a chance to go through our report from Switzerland yet, but we did wind up sat down with one of the _Marittima_ board members..."

"...he seemed certain the company was running before it could walk," picked up her partner, "and that most of the pressure to do so was coming from the new blood which bought into the board during the Anagnos takeover capital raising. If you focus around that time period..."

"...it might help narrow things down more," finished Monty.

Looking at something on her own laptop computer, Priscilla gestured for the folder back and started leafing through it, a stack of sticky notes in one hand.

As she did so, Jethro polished off his coffee, sliding the empty cup away. "I get an inkling the old guard is feeling a bit put out by what's going on. It might be somewhere to apply leverage if needed."

In her chair, his partner inspected the bottom of her own cup and then followed suit. It would certainly be nice if they could get some concrete confirmation that _Marittima_ did indeed tie back to separatist interests; beyond members of its board hobnobbing it with known Padans. The last thing she felt like doing was wasting time chasing after some perfectly innocent weapons smuggling operation. That however was the realm of the SWA's in house analysts and domestic teams. If the link could be made though, that would be one more reason to push chasing the still unidentified man from Hermes up another notch on their "things to do" list.

Turning away from her computer, Priscilla opened up the now flagged and tagged file on the table for all to see. Standing, Monty bent over to take a closer look, and felt her handler lean around beside her to peer past her shoulder.

"Ok, these are whom bought in around the time _Marittima_ were revenue raising for the Anagnos takeover," stated Priss, running her hand up the side of the little bright yellow flags. "Most of them we were already looking into, but it's always nice to be able to narrow things down."

"This one," she jabbed at a page, "is a private trust fund, and belongs to a legitimate _southern_ family interest."

Reaching down she then grabbed three flags which had all been neatly lined up and lifted their attached documents vertical, "these three however, are all investment funds of one form or another. The first two, _Milan Futuri_ and _Investimenti__Uova__d'Oro_ are two we're pretty certain will lead to FRF supporters, but are still working through the background of. The last, EXIS, frankly we're drawing a blank on... and that worries me even more."

Jethro glanced at her, "'EXIS'?"

"For European eXternal, Investment Systems."

"Sounds like something the Yanks would come up with."

"As I said: we're drawing a blank so far, however if I can start concentrating resources on these three it might begin to yield results."

The handler leaned forward so he could look his girl in the eye. "That's now a tad beyond where we arrived at yesterday, mostly it was checking facts and cleaning up a couple of ambiguities," now he turned to the two analysts. "If you two know where your next move is likely to be, we can probably start sorting out what needs be done in order to fill the gaps from our side."

"Well, you know where I'm headed... Genco?"

The male spook studied his notepad quickly. "My next step was to start going back through those lists Priscilla passed onto me, and run them against our known Padans, see if any of their movements or payments somehow line up with deliveries or shipping dates. I'm also keeping a quiet eye on any firearms picked up on operations to see if they match into that takeoff you did on the plane to Colombia. If we can figure out who's dealing or receiving on this end then it might give us a chance to start tracking where the supply chain goes domestically... and I'll start now with the groups involved in _Marittima_."

"Don't go scaring anyone off."

Jethro gave his girl's shoulder a squeeze. "I'm not certain those couple would be the best starting place anyway. You two probably know more about how manned up the Padania is locally than us, but if it were me running the show I'd not have the same assets with fingers in both business and illicit pies if I could help it."

"Point."

"Either way, if he can nail down a few of those," went on Priscilla, "we might be able to figure out where money's going the other direction and give you two some leads."

There was silence as the group contemplated that until, slowly, Jethro spoke up again. "Likewise: not certain how much luck you might have there..."

"...the bulk of the weapons going through Turkey appear to be headed to South America," continued Monty, "and considering the return payment doesn't seem to be going anywhere near Italy itself, I would say the FRF is working pretty hard to keep the bulk of the operation external, and are merely skimming off the top."

Priscilla gave a smile. This was not her usual cheerful look, but one with ice behind it. "Oh, there's always something in the numbers if you look hard enough, the trick is figuring out which number people _really_ want to hide."

Now the cyborg opened her document file, fishing out a blown up print of one of the photos she had taken in Colombia, which she handed to Genco. "Speaking of hiding, while you're on Padan movements, chase up any dealings this chap might have had."

The analyst studied the print; it showed a man with a revolutionary beard and green fatigues, standing on a jungle airstrip somewhere. Assumedly, going by the fratello's reports, that somewhere was Colombia.

_That had been a good one._

Like many of those chained to desks in Section Two, Ribisi made a point of collecting what reports came through from the fratelli for his own perusal. Technically it was part of the job: staying up to speed with what was happening in the field and figuring out what information may be of the most use there... but there was a certain amount of entertainment value to be gained as well, and most in the office had their favourites. Some, without fail, liked to stay current on the crazed shenanigans of the Alboreto fratello, or the Ricci man's various liaisons, the high-octane adventures of the McDonnell pair and so on.

But _everyone_, or at least those he knew in intelligence, read the Blacker reports; their intermittent arrival being treated like the release of a favoured author's new best seller. Pity they were classified, or one of these days he may have sat down to turn one or two into a movie script… even if the ones classified to his level still contained a lot of black censorship bars.

His gaze however didn't waver from the photo. "Who's this?"

"Juan Camilo Umina, a Lieutenant in Colombia's ELN," said Monty. "He's receiving the bulk of arms coming through Turkey, and is the originator for timber going back the other direction. If he, or anyone he associates with, had contact with the FRF, there's a good chance it was to do with setting up the operation in the first place. I don't know how long they've been running this particular gambit, so you may need to go back awhile, check deceased and ex-Padans as well, flights either direction or two going to a single point, money, gophers..."

"Yes ma'am."

That earned him a flat look, and Jethro glanced at his watch, then around the room's other occupants. "If that's sorted, then we still have a fair few hours to kill before three... then I believe Priscilla, you said you're booked in for some hookup or other with Section One?"

The woman nodded, but her expression was grim. "I am. Normally it's on the Monday, but their head spook decided he needed to see some of his field people then." Now her face brightened a little with the light of someone about to pass on a bit of their own pain. "On the upside, since Genco's handy he'll be keeping me company in the rotating slot. So I won't be suffering by myself!"

"_Thanks _Priss."

"My pleasure!"

"In that case," replied the handler, pulling the conversation back on course, "I say we take the rest of this time to go over specifics regards what gaps need filling and try to get as many of those squared away as we can. Priscilla, why don't you walk us through those three investment funds first. I'd prefer not to go scaring the chickens just yet, so the more info we can land on the table here, the less you'll hopefully need to ferret around for later."

* * *

><p>The next hours passed in a whirlwind of paper, spreadsheets and at least two more coffee runs, until Monty glanced at her watch. "Don't you two have somewhere to be shortly?"<p>

Genco inspected at his own timepiece. "We do too. Can we leave this here and pick it up on Monday?"

From where she was working, the girl looked across at Priscilla now as well. "How long have you booked this room out for?"

"It's ours until the end of Tuesday, and before you ask: the current entry code has been issued to us four only."

Waiting while his girl shut down her computer, slipping it back into the document file, Jethro turned to the analysts. "Well then, Monday it is. We might see if we can't figure anything else out over the weekend."

The male of the pair looked surprised, "You're working Sunday?"

"The sooner we're out of here and back on the road the better… for all involved."

Ushering the two compound full-timers out ahead, the handler placed a palm in the small of his partner's back, gently guiding her to the corridor as well, before closing the door behind and giving it a quick push to make sure it was secured. At the top of the stairs the group parted ways: Priscilla and Ribisi heading for the offices, and the Blackers back toward their accommodation.

Waiting until she was certain they were out of earshot, Monty looked up at the man beside her. "How did it go with Alboreto?"

"No joy," he paused for another staff member to pass, nodding a greeting. "He didn't recognise her or wasn't letting on… though I don't think it was the latter. Either way there wasn't much point in pressing the issue further."

"And we don't really want to go sniffing around the SIS just yet either."

"Not really, no."

"For now then I guess all we can do is call her something to look out for rather than actively pursue."

Jethro nodded. Since he'd struck out with Elio regards information on Mary, the one card he felt able to directly play right now on that front had proven worthless. The woman's actions in Monaco suggested that the SIS was quietly letting him know it had one eye on him and his, and at this point in time she didn't quite seem worth the risk of raising the Circus's ire. At some point in the future she may be, but for the current moment…

"We can probably scratch Odessa as well in terms of immediate destinations," he said out loud. "After Turkey and Colombia, anyone with half a brain in that supply chain will be laying low, so I doubt there'll be much to find until they've had time to change underpants and start cranking things up again."

"That could be months."

"I know, but I think we have more solid leads to be followed in Turkey for that one anyway; our mate from Hermes and so on..." the spy replied, carefully leaving Omurtak's name out of the conversation. He paused. "...and then there's the press."

Beside him, Monty grimaced. "Yes, your favourite toy. Call me pessimistic but I doubt it's stayed put."

Beside her, her partner laid a hand on her shoulder, massaging gently; though whether in thought or in an attempt to sooth her own concerns the girl could not tell.

"You're… probably right…" the words came slowly, leaving Jethro's mouth seemingly as he searched for them in his head, "…however I think we still should try Limassol again, because just right now that's about the only lead we have as to its whereabouts. If there's even an off chance it's still in the port we need to make the most of that."

"So Limassol first, and failing that, Turkey."

"On what we have now, I think so."

That sentence brought the fratello to their rooms, and Jethro ducked into his as Monty rattled the key to her own accommodation. Closing the door securely again, the girl deposited the document folio by her desk, before extracting her suitcase and letting it fall open.

Jethro was right about needing to hit the Port of Limassol again, no matter how long of a shot it was. If they didn't manage to intercept the printing press there, then they would be virtually back to square one on that front.

Finding what she wanted, she extracted from the Globe-Trotter luggage a small, leather, zip-close case, similar to the better sort of flat sponge bag, which was briefly opened to check its contents.

As to Mary, well… they may be a little short of details now, but she had an inkling more would start to emerge. What she really wanted to know was what had happened in Grindelwald after they'd left... and she'd yet to flick that one Hilshire's direction.

Extracting the gun and holster from under her dress, she placed them in the case, before tucking it under one arm.

Her handler was waiting in the hall, holding a similar bag to his cyborg's, along with a cardboard box of copper jacketed, 7.65mm Browning rounds. Turning toward the stair, Jethro gave the box a small shake.

"Figure we'd probably best use these up now and replace them with fresh stock before hitting the road again."

"When _was_ the last time we changed those?"

Beside her, her partner made a sucking noise through is teeth. "Probably… last time we were through Rome I'd hazard a guess... at least."

"So a while then."

Despite being technically the middle of winter, outside was bright; the sun's yellow orb suspended high in clear blue skies, and Monty undid her trench allowing it to flap around her as she walked, at the same time donning a set of large sunglasses to protect against the glare.

It was a short journey to the SWA's armoury and indoor range, situated away from the accommodation and administrative areas, half buried in the earth. Once they were well out in the open, her handler spoke quietly.

"So, what do you reckon Mary's actually up to?"

The girl took a moment to collate her thoughts. "Difficult to say: she's turned up in Monaco, Alexandria and Grindelwald… so at the very least I'd suspect she was investigating down similar lines to us, possibly money links somewhere. Problem is of course: why would Her Majesty's Government take an interest in what is essentially a domestic Italian issue?"

"The forged notes were US tender, it could be that it's part of an operation with that mob, or possibly concern that some of those notes will make it back to their own criminal classes," put in Jethro. "Britain is one of the western economies, and like it or not: the US is the biggest player there. If it wobbles... wobbles _more_... so does everyone else."

"But the amount of currency which can be produced by a single press is just a drop in the ocean compared to the damage the US has already managed to do through its own financial system…"

There was silence for a moment, until the handler said quietly, "…which brings us to option B."

The girl beside him sighed. "Yes, option B: that who she's actually after is _us_."

Jethro nodded. "I still don't think it's the highest probability, if she were _actually_ out after us in particular, aside from the occasional chance to touch base and remind me of my continuing obligations to Her Majesty, we'd have seen more action from her by now."

Now it was his turn to sigh. "But the possibility can't be ruled out."

Ushering his partner before him down the armoury building's sunken stairway, the handler stripped off his own coat before taking hers. The space down here was utilitarian: sealed concrete walls and non-slip vinyl flooring, scuffed and dented under harsh fluorescent lights. Above a row of coat hooks was mounted a TV set, where the staffer manning the front counter could watch both at the same time. Right now it was flashing the news, which was still fixated on the shootings in Rome.

Electing to keep a hold of their jackets, Jethro instead turned to the security-screened window, and looked through at the man on the other side, handing over his ID as he did so. "Jethro Blacker, plus one, signing into the range; we'll need four hundred rounds of 7.65mm Browning, and targets as well."

Checking the ID against his register, the clerk pushed it back, and started to rummage for a clipboard. "Don't get too many requests for that, _most_ consider it underpowered."

"_Most_ tend to think with their trigger fingers."

Receiving the clipboard and a pen, the handler laid a palm on his girl. "Well we like to keep you on your toes. Besides, differences are what make people interesting."

That was answered with a snort. "Fill that out, and I'll go retrieve your ammunition… right after I remember where we keep stuff that small."

Scribbling away quickly, Jethro had just about finished when the heavy door to the armoury itself opened with the sound of sliding bolts.

"Hi Mr. Blacker, Monty!"

"Oh! Hi Monty, Mr. Blacker."

Both fratello members turned toward the new voices as Marisa and Kara emerged, followed closely by their handlers, then stood by whilst greetings were exchanged.

"What brings you down here?"

Jethro lifted the old box of ammunition he carried and rattled it, looking between the four, eyes settling on Elio whom had asked the question. "Needed to cycle out the old and replace it with the new… figured we may as well kill two birds with one stone and put in some range time while we're at it."

"Besides, Priscilla and co. are otherwise engaged," added Monty. "You?"

Elio glanced back at Michele, who in turn jerked his head at the TV set. "Renato asked us to provide security for one of his rallies…"

"And like the good friend he is, Pagani here agreed," put in the elder handler.

"…but with this sniper still on the loose, the whole thing was called off." Now the SWA's resident friend-in-political-court motioned to the drab green metal box his cyborg was carrying. "Since we had Kara's rifle signed out anyway, it seemed like a good chance to put some rounds on paper…"

"…and frankly, Marisa and I could use the practice," continued Elio. "We just had to swing back past to pick up a rifle and more ammo. Jacob and Melanie were slated as second snipers for that mission; they're meeting us on the outdoor range."

"You don't want to join us too do you?" piped up Kara hopefully.

Checking her partner's handiwork, Monty looked over the top of the clipboard. "Not really, no."

Laying a hand on her shoulder, Jethro turned back to the two other adults. "Alessandro seemed to think it was only a matter of time before the SWA gets pulled in on that sniper business."

Michele nodded, "He's probably right too. The rally cancellation was a blow, but if the gunman strikes again then pressure's going to really start ramping up on the government to do something about it… and we're the biggest hammer they have."

"They've confirmed it's the same chap?"

"No, but three in a row now with the same MO: it almost has to be," added the elder Englishman.

"He got a third?" put in Jethro.

"That he did… Everything else is just the Ministers playing it down… trying to prevent unease, buy themselves time to catch him."

"They should let us at him! We could have the guy in _ten seconds flat_."

That was Marisa.

"Yes, because what I _really_ want to do is damage our cover on some wild cyborg goose chase..."

Fortunately the armoury clerk chose that moment to return, stilling further conversation; eight boxes, similar to the one Jethro carried, in hand. Running an eye over the completed clipboard, he nodded and passed the ammunition through to where the Blackers could split it between themselves, along with two sets of safety glasses and a pair of ear protectors.

"And another set of those," put in the cyborg, pointing at the last.

Looking surprised, but shrugging, the clerk retrieved another bright yellow headset from under his counter and slid them across to her.

Jethro glanced at his watch, then over to the other two fratelli. "We'd best get cracking."

Following suit, Elio nodded. "Ditto, might catch you in the mess hall tonight."

"You're hanging around that long?"

"Might do, we'll see."

Waving a curt goodbye, Monty led her handler through to the indoor range, donning eye and ear protection as she went. Taking two adjacent lanes, the fratello checked which box of fifty rounds had the most recent manufacture date and put it aside, before splitting the remainder up.

Unzipping the small bag she carried, the cyborg placed her pistol down before extracting two spare magazines and a suppressor, leaving just the cleaning kit inside. Two magazines, three if she counted the one already loaded in her PPK, might have seemed light on to some. However less equipment was less the fratello needed to sneak repeatedly through customs and, if she was brutally honest, if they needed more it was probably time to be finding a bigger firearm anyway. So far, it had served her just fine.

Opening one of the cardboard ammo boxes, she checked it was indeed the correct calibre, and started feeding the small rounds into her two empty magazines. Doing the work by feel, she was free to look around and through the slightly scratched plexiglass lane dividers.

At this time on a Saturday the range was reasonably quiet. Up the far end was the SRT man she hadn't recognised in the refectory, an American Priscilla had said, working his way through malfunction drills. Closer, but on her other side, two of the tech department boffins were plinking away with Agency standard issue Berettas, keeping a careful track of shots fired. Assumedly once they had the requisite number to remain qualified, and therefore employed, they'd be leaving… safe until next month's quota needed to be filled or a requal course rolled around.

Sliding the last round of her final magazine home, Monty retrieved a target from the stack of papers behind her and sent it whizzing out along roof mounted tracks to stop short at seven metres. Unholstering her PPK, the girl checked its chamber was loaded, flicked off the safety, took aim and fired seven quick shots into the black outline's centre of mass. As the little pistol's slide locked back she dropped the spent magazine out, placing it on the bench and with one smooth movement loaded the next. As her handler a lane over started firing, seven more rounds went into the target's head, a process repeated again through a paper shoulder.

Clearing and safing her gun, the cyborg brought her target in. Three ragged holes looked back at her, the first a little larger than she would have liked, but the others closed up nicely. Content she hadn't lost the touch with her firearm of choice, Monty ran a fresh target out to 25 metres and started to reload her magazines.

Beside her, Jethro now brought his own seven metre sheet of paper back, and the girl glanced over quickly; three more neat groups. Not quite the single holes she had managed, but certainly nothing to be ashamed of either.

Three more magazines worth of 7.65mm flew down range, followed by another three until her first two boxes of ammunition were depleted. The two tech branch boffins had disappeared now, and as she started to screw the PPK's suppressor in, the range's door clicked open. Twisting slightly to get eyes on the entrance, Monty watched as it admitted the fourth girl from the group whom had visited her in hospital, Raych, followed by a man who had to be her handler, wearing an unvented black on black suit/shirt combo.

Feeling the shifted balance of her gun, the young spy started to reload her magazines again from a fresh box, observing as the new pair began setting up in one of the previously boffin-occupied lanes. Not taking his own shooting position, the handler instead stood behind his girl, arms folded, as she opened a hard plastic case, lifting from it a combat pistol, replete with tactical light, along with a large collection of magazines.

_Steyr M9-A1_. The thought arrived unbidden in Monty's head as if someone had passed her a file: 9mm, plastic… not her style.

Passing the box back to the man with her, the other cyborg glanced briefly along the firing line, but quickly turned away as the elder girl met her gaze coolly. Leaving his charge to load up however, her handler started to walk down the range toward the Blackers and, sliding a freshly filled mag into her PPK, the young agent placed her firearm down and turned to face him.

"Danilo Olivetti," he held out a palm. "Do you work here? I haven't seen you before."

"You could say that," returned Monty, shaking hands. "Blacker, Monty Blacker."

There was a pause whilst that computed.

"_Blacker_… the spy-borg?"

"So that's what they're calling me now."

"It was the…" Danilo tapped his own ear protectors, but his voice hardened as one suddenly addressing an underling, "…I was not under the impression you cyborgs needed them."

By now Jethro had also polished off his first fifty rounds and, putting his gun down, stepped around the lane barrier to join his partner, resting an arm across her shoulders; something in the other man's tone setting off alarm bells. "Most cyborgs don't spend as much time in public as this one either."

"…and that would make you Jethro Blacker."

"Guilty as charged."

The handshake this time was perfunctory as Danilo got back on topic, reaching out to this time tap Monty's hearing protection. "Still, here these would have to be a moot point."

"Somehow I doubt my wearing them is hurting anybody."

Monty felt her partner give her shoulder a warning squeeze, and past the other handler, she could see Raych had ceased loading, instead watching proceedings, and jerked her head toward the other girl.

"I think your cyborg is waiting for you."

"C. Raych can wait."

Now it was the Brit's turn to raise an eyebrow, _"'Cee?'"_

"For 'cyborg'."

"A-la Asimov's 'R-dot' for 'robot'?"

The other handler's face brightened, "You're the first one to pick that. You've read his works?"

"Bits here and there…"

Lifting her partner's arm, Monty extracted herself from under it. "Well, you two have a nice chat; personally I would like to be out of here and back to something more productive in at least _moderately_ short-ish order."

Turning back to the range proper, the girl sent another target zipping out to the 25 metre mark and hefted her pistol.

"Guess that's my cue as well then," added Jethro with a wry grin, "lest I get myself in trouble… _again._"

Something very akin to disapproval flashed across the second handler's face, as the quieter sounds of a now supressed PPK started up, but was gone in an instant. "I suppose I had best get working too."

"If you don't mind my asking: how long have you two been at it?"

"About a month and a half. She's done her first mission…" now there was a brief scowl, "…but, as much as I hate to say it, there's still a few rough edges need to be knocked off before she'll reach a standard I'm happy with."

"Well, now's the time to do it, break a leg right?"

Returning to his own lane, the ex-SIS man fitted his SIG's suppressor and started to reload magazines. That had been an, _interesting_, encounter. Somehow he had the inkling that Danilo was going to be more dictator than partner for his girl, which to be honest was probably fine in many of the roles filled by fratelli. Besides, it wasn't his place to judge.

From where the Olivetti fratello stood issued the echoing reports of supersonic rounds headed downrange, and in the lane over from her handler Monty's slide again locked back. Dropping the spent mag out to repeat the loading process, the cyborg glanced down to where booming shots were issuing in rapid succession. Seemingly Raych was being run through a speed drill of some description by the sanctimonious prat; standing facing the rear wall before, on command, spinning around to empty her handgun into a hanging target, causing the paper to buck and shiver under a furious 9mm assault. Then the girl would reload before turning around to start the process over again.

As she watched, Danilo picked up one of his charge's already loaded magazines to begin pushing the rounds out with a thumb. From a pocket he then extracted a blue snap cap, slotting it in amongst the live ammunition as he filled the mag again.

_Better her than me._

Picking up her own gun again, the young agent set about using the rest of her ammunition supply.

* * *

><p>Smoothing the hem of her upper-thigh length dress back down, Monty stepped out of the toilet cubicle to gurgling water, surreptitiously checking in the armoury ladies' room mirror that there was no sign of her loaded PPK having been returned to the small of her back. Content in its concealment, she swung her trench back on and washed her hands out of force of habit before stepping back into the entry room. The space was devoid of her partner, but someone else was present, stood by the armoury counter.<p>

"Triela."

"Hello Monty, not often we see you down here."

The young spy glanced at her watch. "Well, I need to fit range time in _somewhere_. Have you seen Jethro?"

"I think he's outside with Hilshire," the dark skinned cyborg paused for a second. "You know, Henrietta was quite upset with you this morning."

"Was she now?" the reply was disinterested at best.

"She was… apparently you turned down her invite to tea… oh, thank you," the last was directed at the armoury clerk, whom handed over a couple of boxes of shotgun shells and one each of 9x17mm and 9x19mm ammunition.

"I said I was going to be busy, and I could hardly be accused of _lying_," replied Monty, turning for the exit.

"_I_ know that," returned Triela, falling into step beside her, "but 'Etta tends to take these things somewhat personally."

The gen 2 girl stopped, one hand on the door, to eyeball her companion. "_Triela,_ no offence to you, but you seem to be confusing me with _someone who cares_."

_Easy for you to say, some of us have to live with her._

Outside the sun was starting to sink below dark horizons, taking with it the welcome warmth of the day, any residual heat disappearing rapidly out to space through a clear sky. Above, the first stars of the evening were just beginning to show, peeking past glowing contrails high in the air, their bright knife cuts against deep velvet attracting Monty's eye.

_The sooner she was at the front of one of those icy paths, the better._

Closer to earth however she found her partner, stood at the top of the entry stairs apparently in conversation with someone else.

Arriving beside him, the girl gave a nod of recognition to the man opposite. "Hilshire."

"Ms. Blacker."

"I was just asking Hilshire here if he'd heard anything through the Europol grapevine about Moratti," put in Jethro, pulling his girl around in front of him. Passing over the fresh 50 round box of ammunition, he placed one hand on each of her shoulders, starting to rock her gently side to side. "Unfortunately he was saying nothing's come through?"

The last was a question, and he looked to the other man, whom nodded. "I have not heard anything I'm afraid. I could ask around if you liked but…"

The rocking stopped, and the spy glanced down at his girl, who tilted her head back to meet his gaze. Finally he looked up again. "If you can do it quiet like that would be brilliant."

"I will see what I can find."

"Thanks," Jethro glanced at his watch, "and now I'm afraid to say we'd best get a rattle on, work to do."

Hilshire checked his own timepiece. "As had we; we have an early start for Naples again in the morning, hence picking up ammunition now."

"Fair call. Well, if we don't catch you again, best of luck."

"And you."

Turning away toward the SWA offices, the Blackers crunched along gravel paths until they were certain of being well beyond the range of even Triela's augmented hearing. Safely alone now, the elder of the pair reached over to bring his partner a little closer, leaning down to speak softly. "I think it would be best if we assume Victor there isn't going to be able to dredge up much to help lead us to Mary. The man's good, and his heart's in the right place; but he's also been out of the active Europol loop for a while."

"True, but for the moment that's about the only avenue of pursuit we have left; no matter how cagy his old contacts may have become. So question is: where do we concentrate between now and leaving?" Monty paused for two gritty foot falls. "Personally I would like to have a bit more of a go at running this Hermes chap down manually."

"Are you better off on that, or with Genco sifting data?"

"As thrilling as babysitting Ribisi sounds, I think I'm better on Hermes. The spreadsheets he has are mine anyway, but what I don't have access to away from here are the Agency's, and Italy's for that matter, intelligence data bases…" she paused for a second. "…I guess I should try running our data sheets against those as well, but I'd still like to have a stab at Hermes first; anything which might help us trying to track him down later… I'll spend this evening and Sunday on that, then sit down with Genco next week… having one of us keep an eye on him probably wouldn't be a bad idea anyway."

Outside her field of view, Jethro gave a wry smile at the phrasing. "In that case, I might keep on with Priscilla chasing where _Marritima's_ funds lead. If we can figure out who's ultimately doing the bankrolling, it might give you a chance to narrow your own search… the car's booked in for a service Tuesday anyway, so we're stuck in Rome at least until the day after."

Reaching the corridor to Section 2's offices, Monty grimaced. "I think the doctors want me here up to Thursday too…"

"…somehow I'm sure we can keep ourselves occupied." returned her partner with a lopsided grin. "With a bit of luck, by then we'll have enough ducks lined up to forge ahead on."

Twisting the door handle he started to pull it open, only to be almost knocked down by a flying Priscilla.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	10. CH10 A Roman Holiday - Part 02

**AND THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction, based on works by Yu Aida. _

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><p><em>Special thanks to all those who have allowed me use of their OC characters for this and the next chapter, and have helped me mould the words to them. In no particular order for CH10: Kiskaloo|Kara &amp; Michele, Professor Voodoo|Marisa &amp; Elio and Genco, MP5|Brian &amp; Allison, theprodigalson|Nikias &amp; Anastasia and Officer_Charon|SRT Personnel… I hope I can do them justice.<em>

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><p><strong>Chapter10|A Roman Holiday – Part 02<strong>

Evening in Italy: a time for family, fun and winding down, certainly not a time for work… particularly not on a Saturday and most certainly not during the holiday season.

With the hours rolling toward God's ordained day of rest, the corridor outside Section 2's offices was quiet and empty; those with the option having long headed home or even further afield for a well-earned recharge.

Not all were so fortunate however, and the muffled sound of two people climbing the stairs seeped into the space, footfalls and quiet voices ringing emptily in silent air as they neared.

Cresting the last step, Monty grimaced. "I think the doctors want me here up to Thursday too…"

"…somehow I'm sure we can keep ourselves occupied," returned her partner with a lopsided grin.

Twisting the office door handle he started to pull it open, only to be almost knocked down by a flying Priscilla.

"Whoah! Slow down luv!" exclaimed Jethro, fielding the speeding analyst, "I thought you were headed home. What's the rush?"

Extricating herself from his arm, the woman rearranged the files she had been carrying into something more wieldy before replying, somewhat out of breath. "Call came through twenty minutes ago from the Minister of Defence, we've been ordered to mobilise immediately and join the hunt for this sniper."

"Bit earlier than everyone was predicting."

"A little," now however the usually perky intelligence supervisor's face turned grim, "But the Rome police found his third hide, with a written message. The exact transcript's in the intelligence packet, I'll forward it to you, but it's something to the effect of: 'the killings will continue until the North can secede from the South'."

"Padan?" put in Monty.

"Don't know… if it is this represents a pretty serious departure from their standard routine of bluster and bombings. Here's the best bit though: _whatever _he is, he's given them two days to comply, or on the third he sends the ultimatum public."

"That _would_ put the wind up the politicians..."

"...and it makes for one hell of a new year's resolution," finished Jethro, standing back to clear the passage. "Anything we can do to help?"

"Right now? Honestly? Stay out of the road… the children find you distracting. Jean and Major Salles are on their way in now to sort out deployments and how we're going to work in with the other agencies already on the ground; and they're going to want some sort of distilled briefing when they arrive… read the data packet if you _really_ want to. Otherwise, briefing's at six tomorrow."

With that she was gone, hurrying toward where the intelligence department had set up shop.

"Best laid plans of mice and men huh?"

Monty nodded, "I'll go get my computer, meet you in Spooks' offices."

As his partner made a beeline for her own room, Jethro stripped off his heavy driving coat, folding it over one arm and ambled unhurriedly after Priscilla; if there was excitement somewhere, he certainly didn't intend to be left out.

The intelligence branch of Section 2 looked in on the same courtyard as the handlers' office, facing it eye-to-eye across thin air. Where the handlers generally left the windows clear for maximum light however, the Spooks tended to keep their venetian blinds down. During the afternoons that lent the space a certain film-noir cool, especially when paired with the double glazed, sound insulating frosted glass which fronted their corridor.

Between the SWA's arrival and now, someone else had drawn the same parallel and cut text out of the frosting film covering the wooden door's window in a neat, serifed type: _SWA P.I – Cose Indigato_.

Whatever the original thinking had been, it was convenient, and looking through the "C"'s thickening, Jethro located a free desk near Genco. Opening the door, he set about claiming it for his own.

Even at this time of night the intelligence arm was well populated, and dodging around another rushing member, Jethro collected a spare office chair for his girl, before plonking himself down beside Ribisi. "Everyone's in a bit of a flap."

The analyst's head flicked up from the document he had been scrolling through and looked at his new companion hard. "What brings you here?"

"Priscilla mentioned there may be a tizz… thought we'd come down and look to lending a hand."

"We?"

"Monty's on her way, but what can you tell me in the meantime?"

"Not a lot yet," shrugging, Genco turned his monitor slightly to bring it into view, "I'm still getting my head around it as well. Ballistics came through on the first two shots fired, and they're a match: 7.62mm Russian, from the same gun. Other than that, just what's been in the news: killings one and two were in non-descript neighbourhoods, regular streets frequented by regular people, nothing of any significance. Shot three though was in Piazza della Cinque Lune. That's right next to Piazza Navona..."

"…so he's getting bolder, or this is an intentionally staged escalation."

Both men turned, and Jethro rolled back to clear Monty access to the desk and data cables, her presence drawing eyes from around the rest of the room as the fratello's arrival started to click.

"She's right you know," started the handler, as his girl set her computer booting, "and if this chap actually is Padania and not just some random lunatic, then a slow escalation, giving the fear time to settle and distil, is very different from what… and correct me if I'm wrong here… but from what we're used to seeing out of the Separatists."

Now, Ribisi nodded. "It is, their normal M.O. is bombings and threats; big statements all at once… if this is intentional though, then there has to be some sort of pattern they're following. There's reports on each of the shootings and the hides used so far in here somewhere, let me pull them up, if we look hard enough there has to be some sort of correlation."

"Print me out a copy?"

"Sure."

Now Monty's laptop was online, her email displaying a new message indicator. Pulling the files across into a fresh secure folder, she unzipped it and leaned over to look at Genco's screen.

"Which file?"

"Umm," he pointed at the monitor, "that one."

"Right, get reading then we'll look to comparing notes."

As Jethro stood up to go and collect his copy from the office printer, Monty quickly scrolled through the document, coming to a halt at a photo of where the sniper had taken his first shot from. It was someone's bedroom, with a view out onto a square still hung with fluttering Christmas decorations; Piazza Lacellotti, in rione Ponte, if she were to believe the attached note. Her knowledge of Rome wasn't minute in its detail, but it hardly looked like a major site: a public space turned carpark for the buildings surrounding it. Neither was the second site, she flicked down the document briefly, Via Baldassarre Peruzzi, a suburban street of trees and washing two and a half clicks south along the Tiber in Aventino.

She scrolled back to the first shot; assumedly the room's owner was away, their bed neatly made, lightly lace-edged duvet tying in with a chicly Spartan and rustic fit out. Probably somewhat less in keeping with the owner's intent was a chest of low draws placed in the centre of the space; well back from the window and with a bag of dry cement dropped atop them, giving the shooter somewhere to rest his rifle. Over the wall above, in blue paint, was scrawled: _Dovrei essere adorato come un dio?_

"_Should I be worshiped as a god?"_

The girl felt a waft of air as her partner returned with his own hard copy, leaning over her shoulder to see what had piqued her interest. "Bit uncouth; some poor sap's going to need to scrub that out of the whitewash now."

Genco had the same picture up on his own monitor, "Looks like the ravings of a lunatic."

"It does seem a little excessively bonkers," returned Jethro, "which makes me wonder if this bloke is actually related to the Padania at all, or if he's just another nutter trying to lend himself some credibility."

Monty turned to look at him, "the note sounded serious enough."

"So does the Oxford English Dictionary, and that was in part penned by a man whom chopped off his own willy."

From the other chair came a little sound of wincing, sympathetic pain. "Too much information… Ok, how about we read through once, then come back and compare notes?"

Scrolling back to the top of the document, Monty started to skim through what the state police had found so far.

Ten minutes later it was becoming evident that what had been found were a lot of facts, but very little in the way of conclusions drawn. She was just opening up Acrobat's comments function with a view to rectifying that situation when the door opened to admit Field Commander Jean Croce, followed by a hulking man, assumedly Major Salles of the Gruppo di Intervento Speciale_,_ into intelligence central.

In a room full of sharply cut suits and civilian rags the Major, clothed in working dress and combat boots, stood out like a sore thumb, and a number of eyes turned to take in the newcomer. Beside him, Jean used the opportunity to get everyone's attention.

"Over by the whiteboard, _now_... I want to know what we have to date, and you can keep refining as the night goes on," then he turned to his companion, speaking in a more normal tone, quiet in the busy space but able to be picked up by Monty's sensitive hearing. "I say we rough out a general deployment plan with what information's available, and figure out details as Priscilla's people get into the nuts and bolts."

Rising, the cyborg found herself steered toward the front of the crowd by her handler, taking up a position along its forward edge, one of his hands on each shoulder. Reaching up she plucked the sheaf of papers he carried from his grasp and started to leaf through.

At the centre of the group's focus Jean finished erasing one of the room's large rolling whiteboards, and turned to survey the assembled personnel, Salles standing off to one side. His eyes finally settled on the sole present fratello.

"Blacker, what are you and your cyborg doing here?"

Priscilla, whom had just managed to push her way through the throng to the whiteboard's other side turned to catch them in her gaze as well, shoulders slumping in resignation and Jethro flicked her a quick wink.

"We heard there was some sort of flap on, thought we might come down and see if we could lend a hand."

The elder Croce brother paused at that, two possible courses of action tussling behind his eyes.

It only lasted a moment, and the easier option won out. "Fine, you can stay for now but once we break up here you're out. The handlers who left for the weekend or holiday are dribbling back as we speak, and will continue so for a while yet: those field personnel who _can_ be rested need to be."

Monty was about to open her mouth when she felt her partner's hands tighten; now was neither the time nor the place, and she closed it again.

Content with that, Jean looked back to the crowd. "We all know why we're here, so lets cut to the chase: what can you tell me?"

Drawing a breath, Section 2's chief analyst looked at the notebook in her hands. "The honest answer right now is: not much. Our target has engaged three times to date, all successfully, on three consecutive days. Each engagement was around mid-afternoon to early evening and followed a similar M.O: sniper shot, centre of mass, from a closed room or building. We think that may be…"

"Leave the theories out for now, just the bare bones."

Priscilla nodded and continued, "…So far he's operated between the riones of Ponte and Aventino, concentrating his efforts inside Old Rome's walls and close to the Tiber's eastern bank. Those efforts have been in primarily residential areas, but his last attack seems to indicate some escalation of action. Ballistics suggest he's using Russian hardware, probably a Dragunov like Rico's."

"That's it for the real basics," she looked at Jean now, "though I think we can assume that, whoever this man is, he is either part of, or at least identifies with, the Northern Separatist movement."

"Surely the government won't cave to what he's demanding?" spoke up someone toward the back of the crowd.

"I doubt it, but the pressure's going to mount quickly to do something," this voice sounded a bit more mature. "Bombings at least tend to be targeted, or spread out in their timing. But if people are just being picked off randomly in the street, simply for walking outside..."

The voice tailed off, leaving its thought hanging in the air.

"The time of year would be problematic though," piped up Genco, from where he had positioned himself next to the Blackers. "People leave home less in winter, there's a proper statistic somewhere, so there are less targets to shoot at... though this warmer weather may be tempting a few more outside."

"And New Year's is just around the corner," added Jethro.

"And the sales." That was Priscilla.

"Between all of which someone may have thought it enough to be worth going now..." finished the handler. He stopped, looking down now to catch his girl's eye. "...and maybe the killings aren't his end goal at all; maybe it's something we've not found yet."

From the front of the room came a cough, and Jean looked around at his audience again. "Whatever the man's motivations might be, right now I need some sort of rough operational pattern: areas, similarities in hides, victims, pointers, anything. Priscilla's given us the bones, now put some meat on them…"

* * *

><p>"…sniper so far is showing an affection for empty residences, with the occupants away. How he knows which homes are deserted we have not yet ascertained, but it's something to look out for."<p>

Down the front of Section 2's main lecture theatre-cum-briefing room, Jean let that hang as another slide blinked into existence on the projector screen above him, showing the interiors of the killer's last three hides. From where she was sat, Monty sipped at her coffee and took the opportunity to glance around. Not everyone had made it back to the SWA in time: some were still travelling, whilst others were assigned to field operations deemed too critical to remove them from.

Despite that the space was full, tiered seating accommodating fratelli, staff and, off to one side; Amadeo, Giorgio, Nihad and the rest of their SRT; anyone who wasn't busy had been automatically assigned to the hunt.

_And even some who technically were..._

It was a rueful thought, but at least she wasn't alone in the predicament as, to her handler's right, Hilshire studied the photos intently; his and Triela's Naples trip binned, or at least postponed, until the gunman could be caught.

"The government has pulled out all the stops for this one, so the city is going to be crawling with people not our own and organisations not aware of our existence," continued Jean. "To try and limit the SWA's exposure, Hilshire will be coordinating with the Direzione Centrale della Polizia Criminale and the detectives involved, under the guise of Europol. Operationally, Major Salles..." he gestured to the hulking commando, "...will be our mouthpiece through his GIS unit. Other than via those channels there is to be no communication with outside agencies. I'll say that again for the more dim-witted: unless otherwise instructed, you are _not_ to communicate with non-SWA personnel."

The Field Commander glanced at his notes, "On that point: should you need information you are to contact Priscilla in intelligence. Hilshire will be feeding what he finds back to her, so do not call him directly. Operational queries are to come to me at Zero Alpha."

The graphic above the podium changed now to a map of Rome, closed in on what lay inside its ancient walls.

Leaning over, Hilshire motioned to the hard copy briefing Jethro still had with him. "Can I look at that?"

Wordlessly the Brit handed it over, and Jean's next point was accompanied by paper quietly rustling as the ex-Europol investigator flicked through.

"Onto deployments: no-one's yet sure where this bastard is going to strike next, so wherever you're sent, don't get too comfortable and be ready to move quickly. Those fratelli with sniper or sharp shooter experience are to co-ordinate with the GIS in order to cover as much ground as possible. Jacob, Michele, Fio: see Major Salles after this for your taskings. Nihad and Caprese will be joining you along with two other teams from the SRT."

Tapping the podium's keyboard for two red dots to appear on the map, he continued. "We will also have two fast response assault teams in vehicles: one in Pigna to cover the sniper's known area of operations and the other in Esquilino. I realise that puts our heavy-hitters all on the east side of the river, but so far that's where our man has been working. For the little bit of Old Rome on the Tiber's western bank and up toward Vatican City, the Pigna van's close enough to get there on reasonably short notice."

Turning a page, Jean drew at his own coffee. "The Olivetti fratello with Gaetano and Chiara, Lombardi and Esposito will take the Esquilino position. I'll be in the Pigna van with Stavropoulus, Gallo and Martinello. That will also serve as our command vehicle."

"What, do you really feel the need to keep that close of an eye on me?"

The Field Commander turned a glare on a dark haired handler, slouched across two chairs, and the bulky, red-headed girl next to him seemed to wilt a little under the extra attention.

"_Yes,_ I do..."

"I'm touched."

"…everyone else is eyes on the ground. Blacker, you and Monty get the north: everything from Esquilino up to Tridente and Sallustiano. Jose, you're in the same area, but concentrate around Sant'Eustachio toward the river in the west. Alboreto..."

Leaning over again, Hilshire dropped the briefing document on Jethro's foldaway desk, open at the picture of the first hide. "Looks like our sniper considers himself a Caesar."

"Huh?"

"It looks like the sniper considers himself a Caesar," repeated the German. "This is paraphrasing Caesar Augustus making his mythical question to the Tiburtine Sibyl."

Now, catching that something was up, Monty leaned in from her partner's other side as he stared down at the paper. "What're you thinking?"

"Say that last part again," said her handler, eyes still glued to the picture.

"The words are a version of those spoken in myth by Caesar Augustus to the Tiburtine Sibyl, questioning if he should be worshiped by the people as a God. It's a favourite reference for the early Christian artists and writers."

"Monty, I retract my previous statement," said Jethro, flicking quickly through the pages, "I don't think these are the ravings of a lunatic."

"The second murder was on Via Baldassarre Peruzzi," he stopped at a picture of the street in which the second shooting took place. "Baldassarre Peruzzi was an architect and fresco painter, most notably working with Raphael on St. Peter's Basilica. However, wearing an artistic hat, one of his other well known works is in Siena: a fresco of _Augustus and the_ _Tiburtine Sibyl_."

Now he looked up, glancing between the people on either side of him. "He's leaving us clues..."

"He's _challenging _us…" picked up Hilshire, after a moment, "…he _wants_ to be chased."

"Assuming it's not just coincidence," put in Monty.

Now however, connections were being made behind the German's eyes and he turned to her. "The behaviour probably seems unusual, but it's also certainly not unheard of in the instance of psychopaths and/or serial killers."

Her partner however nodded, "Hilshire, can you and Triela go straight to the second hide, see if you can find a similar clue? Call me when you find it, we'll try and hang back here with the intelligence crowd."

"You think we will?" that was Triela from the far side of her own handler.

"If we look hard enough, I think so."

From his podium, Jean glared around the room. "This barstard has been striking in the afternoons. It's seven am now, don't give him another chance. Good luck, and good hunting."

"Something's starting to smell off about this," intoned Monty, quietly.

Jethro nodded, as around them people started to rise, "Lets go and have a word with Croce the elder."

Standing, the Blackers pushed their way through the mass of people all trying to exit at once, many in a hurry to be first in line at the armoury; the clerk there was going to be a busy man for the next hour or so. Emerging from the scrum at the front of the room, Jethro pulled up next to where Jean was just saying something to Ferro, whom turned away to go about her business with a nod to the newly arrived fratello.

"Jean, a word in your ear?"

"Make it quick."

"We've just been having a chat with Hilshire and I think Monty and my talents would be better employed here collating information than out in the field..."

"No," the answer was quick and succinct.

"...because there's a chance we might be onto a way to figure out where our marksman will be striking next, and to work that out I need to be here with all the intelligence toys."

Now the elder Croce stopped, considering, then shook his head. "The answer's still 'no'. Whatever you've picked up, brief Priscilla on it then get moving; you're the best intelligence assets I have, and I need you on the ground."

"We're not the only fratello in that area."

"Yes, but you're the only one covering the _whole_ area. None of the other fratelli has your background, Jethro, or their cyborgs Monique here's experience at blending in and observing… why do you think we gave you so much room to move in the first place?"

Jethro saw his opening, it wasn't a perfect solution, but it would do. "Then how about just Monty goes? She's used to working autonomously, and if your intention was for us to ride herd..."

"And just how do you intend to get her to Rome from here? It's not like we run a _bus _service."

The spy glanced around for a solution.

"Michele!"

Michele Pagani stopped, bringing his cyborg to a halt as well, clutching an iPad and set of heavy iron keys, the latter of which had been given to him by Major Salles. "What can I do for you Jethro?"

"I need to stay here and work with the spooks; can you run Monty into Rome?"

Pagani glanced at the girl in question, who gave a curt nod. "Of course, but we need to move, now."

Beside him, Kara beamed. "Monty's coming with us?"

"Looks like."

Sparing a look for her partner, Monty followed the other fratello through the briefing room exit before Jean had a chance to change his mind.

Once in open air, Michele took in the mass of bodies, all headed one direction. "I think we'll drive to the armoury, it'll be easier and give us a chance of beating everyone else through."

"I still need my coat, and handgun."

Monty leaned forward to look around the man between them at Kara on his opposite side, and cocked an eyebrow. The handler however was unfazed. "Okay. Kara, you go back to the dorm for your things. Monty, did you need to grab anything?"

The young spy did a quick check of her coat pockets, using the movement to mask a hand brushing across the PPK again in the small of her back.

"No, I'm good."

"...then we'll drive over to the armoury and sign out Kara's rifle. Kara, meet us there… and bring your instrument case as well."

The Franco-Japanese cyborg looked unhappy at the prospect of leaving her handler with another girl, but after a moment of hesitation took off toward her room at a trot: the quicker she was ready the quicker she could be back.

Fortunately this time Michele had chosen to stop in the main car park, and Monty dropped into the red Ferrari FF's passenger seat as her companion thumbed its starter and headed for the main entrance. The sound of more engines firing followed them through the arch; seemingly others had been thinking along similar lines.

Big GT safely fronting the armoury-bound pack, the handler turned to look at his current companion. "I take it that by 'good' you mean you're armed as well?"

_Bollocks._

"Don't worry, your secret's safe with me."

Internally, the cyborg let out a little sigh of relief.

Ahead the armoury building rolled into view. Seemingly only one car had beaten them: a white BMW M3. Inside, its owner was already at the counter and Michele eyed him with a level of friendly, competitive annoyance.

"How did you manage to beat us here Alboreto?"

The bearded ex-spy turned to face them, "Tricks of the trade lad, you don't stay alive this long in this game without learning a few."

"You know, most people your age would just flash a seniors' card if they wanted to go straight to the front of the queue."

"Do that occasionally too."

Monty however had spotted a flash of copper hair moving around restlessly whilst its handler signed for ammunition and a Kel-Tec RFB rifle.

"Marisa."

The twin braided girl stopped moving, "Umm, hi Monty."

"What's up with you, normally I'd at least get a greeting or you'd have _broken_ something by now."

The younger cyborg hesitated. "Well, after we left you in the hospital, Ferro got really mad and she told Raych's handler and she told me last night that he... I thought maybe you…"

The elder girl cut her off with a flick of her hand, "I'm sure she'll be fine, do you have a valid Metro Pass?"

"Yeah?"

"Let me borrow it."

"Why?"

"Because the Skipper's staying here and I need to get around Rome _somehow_."

Marisa paused, glancing up at her handler, who nodded. Digging in a pocket, she handed over a battered looking slip of cardboard with a magnetic strip running down one side. "And this makes us even?"

_Not sure what for, but ok…_

Giving the mental equivalent of a shrug, Monty cocked an eyebrow. "_Possibly._"

The other girl's face broke into a massive grin. "Awesome!"

Stepping away from the counter, Elio handed down the rifle already in its case along with two spare magazines, whilst picking up two boxes of ammunition himself along with two more unmarked packages.

"Come on, you can load up outside; this place is about to get busy. Best of luck Pagani, Monty."

"Yeah, see ya Monty! Mr. Pagani!"

With that the Alboreto fratello was gone, and Michele stepped up to the counter. "I need a hundred rounds of 5.7mm, and Kara's DSG with subsonics for that as well."

The clerk reached over to grab the appropriate forms, now stacked neatly in anticipation of what was to come. "That rifle's getting quite a workout, it'd almost be worth letting her hang onto it... anyway, fill these out and I'll be back."

The armoury was staring to fill up, arriving fratelli forming a raggedy queue. Some eyed the odd pairing now at the window, whilst others talked quietly or just stood silent. Chiara was next in line with her handler, then Fio and Soni, Jacob and Melanie, Henrietta, Allison, Petra... there was a commotion by the door as the SRT made its way inside. Walking straight down the line, Amadeo swiped his ID to open the heavy portal to the armoury proper, Giorgio bringing up the rear to make sure none of his command were left waiting.

As that door clamped shut again, the clerk returned, ammunition and DSG-1 in hand. Checking Michele's paperwork, he handed over his burden as Amadeo poked his head into the office and said something quietly. A relieved look flashed across the harangued man's face as the SRT commando picked up a sheaf of the pre-printed pages and disappeared again.

Returning to his current clients, the armourer passed four more white boxes through the gap. "You'll be wanting those as well, I assume Kara and her..." he nodded at Monty, "...handler need one each also?"

"No, just the extra for Kara."

"_Jethro's_ not coming."

The clerk hesitated for a second, then shrugging removed one box and slid the remainder over. Picking up their issue, the Michele/Monty pair followed Elio's example and made an exit as the armoury door clanged open to reveal Amadeo standing behind it. "Alright! Listen up! Form a second queue at the door and lets get everyone on the road as quickly as possible!"

Popping the FF's rear hatch under a chill winter pre-dawn, the handler placed his cyborg's rifle in its cavernous boot. Then, reaching inside his jacket he extracted a spare pistol magazine and started quickly loading it from the box now resting open on the car's luggage compartment floor. Waiting for him to finish, Monty leaned against a wheel arch, twisting the crown of her watch back and forward to ensure its spring was wound.

Michele was just sliding home the last round as Kara came jogging up, an expensive carbon-fibre bassoon case hanging from one shoulder. Her heavy knit jumper was now topped by a warm, knee length coat helping frame bare legs between a set of red soled, fur topped boots and her skirt... The hem of which seemed to have itself raised another couple of inches as opposed to that she had worn at the briefing.

"Ok, I'm ready to go Michele."

Reaching inside, Michele removed the ammunition and spare magazines from his car's boot then dropped back seat centre section forward before shutting the hatch firmly whilst, taking the cue to get moving, Monty headed for the passenger door. She was just shrugging off her own coat when Kara slid into the driver's position.

One eyebrow raised.

In way of answer, the other cyborg thumbed the ignition and started to adjust her seat forward. "Michele doesn't like driving in Rome traffic, don't worry, I do this all the time."

Standing again, the young spy looked across red bodywork to where the man in question was standing. "_No_. I'm _not_ getting in this car with her behind the wheel."

There was silence as the two locked gazes, then the handler stuck his head down to the driver's door. "Come on Kara, into the back; you've got to pack your rifle and load up anyway."

"But..."

"_Now_."

Grumbling something under her breath, she extracted herself from behind the wheel, stepping quickly around the car's rear to where Monty stood back, allowing her to push the passenger's backrest forward and climb into the Ferrari's, admittedly quite commodious, rear accommodation. One Asian-featured girl safely ensconced in deep, cream leather, the smaller cyborg took her own position, brushing the hem of her Mondrian dress forward for it to sit neatly under her legs.

"I still don't see why I have to be in the back."

"Because adults sit in the front, Kara."

"But I'm _older_ than you."

Moving his own chair back so he could sit down, Michele let out a small sigh.

Dawn was just starting to colour the sky as the Pagani fratello, plus one, turned out the SWA's compound gate and accelerated down its lumpen access road. That broken tarmac did not last more than a few kilometres however, and soon they were on smooth dual carriageway, winding through the dregs of low, rolling hills. Rising sun at their backs, the passing landscape levelled out, rural fields marred only by trees and power lines, their tops just picking up the first morning rays of light, skipping over snowy peaks behind and seeping onto the lowlands.

As the mountains receded into the distance however, nature and history gradually gave way to laydown yards and factories: a visual chart of Italian industrial progress. Finally the last fields disappeared, and Michele ran their big GT car around a tightly knotted cloverleaf, merging smoothly onto the A1 Autostrada to lope north-west up the shin of the Italian boot toward Rome.

Beyond the car's glass, six lanes of traffic hurtled onward through mile after mile of flatlands and low rolling hills. Kara had finished loading her magazines by now and was watching the world pass by at a hundred and thirty kilometres per hour whilst, in the front passenger seat, Monty paid her no heed. Instead she picked up one of the unmarked white boxes. From the flimsy cardboard fell a small radio and flesh coloured earpiece, which were inspected with distaste.

"_What_ is _this_."

Sitting forward the other girl looked over her compatriot's shoulder. "It's an earbud radio. The flesh coloured bit goes in your ear, then you hide the transmitter somewhere on your body."

"I know what it is, Kara. But why do _I_ have it."

"I imagine so we can talk to each other, Michele and I use them all the time..."

"Great, _just_ what I want."

"...Also so Jean can move us around if he needs to."

Now Monty glanced at their driver. "Speaking of, where has he stationed you two?"

"We're starting in the bell tower of San Carlo al Corso," he replied, eyes not leaving the road. "It overlooks a number of piazzas and we've been issued a parking permit… but I doubt we'll stay there all day."

"Not major tourist attractions?"

"Not really, not compared to the Spanish Steps, Trevi Fountain or Colosseum."

The girl nodded, that was consistent with where the sniper's operational pattern seemed to be headed to date.

"At this time on a Sunday it should be fairly quiet, just church goers and they'll all be inside," put in Kara. "Did you want us to take you right in?"

Monty shook her head. "No, drop me at one of the outer Metro stations. With a bit of luck by the time I arrive somewhere will be serving coffee."

* * *

><p>The sun was comfortably into its arc when Monty stepped onto the forecourt of Roma Termini Station. Slipping on a pair of large sunglasses to survey the scene, her ears caught the peal of church bells floating across Rome's rooftops, adding richness and texture to the image her heightened senses built. Sunday, the day of rest; but as many large cities Rome never truly rested, its hustle and bustle merely shifting flavour to the influence of day and night.<p>

Beneath another cloudless sky, _this_ Rome made an unfitting backdrop to the deadly game of cat and mouse being played out in its streets and piazzas. However life went on as it had done for centuries, through war and empire and fallen leaders for the eternal city's citizens, and so it would continue today.

Under the station's modernist facade tides of people ebbed and flowed unfazed around her, the honk and shout of jostling taxi drivers punctuating their hubbub. Ignoring those and the buses further afield, Marisa's metro pass having turned out to be a concession ticket, Monty instead turned along the station's covered edifice toward ancient streets beyond. It would be difficult to pick out tails in this mess, but moving a few stone and stucco blocks further afield would ease her task. Across the city others would be filing into place, scouring streets and buildings, and she had no intention of being caught napping.

By them, or anyone else.

* * *

><p>Closing the door of her handler's Mercedes estate, Triela surveyed Via Baldassarre Peruzzi. Trees, luscious in green garb during summer but mere bare sticks now, lined the footpaths, like fashion models stripped of their finery and left naked under lights. Beyond, residential blocks in an eclectic mix of glass and render loomed over them, washing flapping from windows, taking advantage of rare, sunny winter days.<p>

It didn't look like a place of violence, it looked like somewhere to raise a family; but further up the street a blue Polizia Alfa Romeo was parked at the entrance to one of those blocks, and further along its twin guarded a box of police tape strung atop the footpath, driver now standing watch over his patch of concrete.

Behind she heard the car's central locking snap shut.

"Come on, lets go see if Blacker's hunch is correct."

Falling into step a pace behind Hilshire, the cyborg kept one eye on her surrounds. "Do you think we'll find anything?"

"Don't know, but right now it's the only theory we have, so keep your eyes peeled, and remember; we're on the clock."

"Yes sir."

Despite a garishly yellow exterior, the walk-up block they entered was dingy and dimly lit. High above, sun filtered down from a dirty skylight, through floating dust motes, which danced to the tap of soles on worn terrazzo, echoing around the empty atrium stairwell. The small landing at its end was tiled with the same finish as the stairs, a wrought iron balustrade all that stood between those here and a five storey drop straight down. Directly opposite, the sole door leading out onto the space was open, but guarded by a policeman and another thin strip of tape.

Approaching the man, Hilshire held up his Europol ID. This one was a fake, modelled to match a recent change in style, but once it had been the genuine article and some things you never forgot.

"Detective Victor Hilshire of Europol, this is my assistant, Triela; my office should have phoned ahead."

_That felt like aeons ago._

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I have been informed of no such visitation."

"Then check with your superiors."

The guard looked at him blankly for a moment, before speaking into his radio to be met with a crash and garbled words from the other end whilst the handler waited patiently. Coming from a background of Teutonic efficiency, he had quickly learned that this was just the way things got done in Italy: be it ordering coffee, getting a car serviced, buying an apartment… or entering a crime scene; something wasn't worth doing if it wasn't worth expending time, theatre and a maximum of arm waving on.

And nothing was written down, _ever_. And nobody passed information along willingly, _ever_: if what you had been told was truly important then someone else would come looking for it eventually.

Finally the police guard beckoned the SWA pair over. "My apologies Signor Hilshire, it seems your call got lost at the office. Inspector Berlusconi is on his way, but you are free to look around if you feel like."

Nodding his thanks, Hilshire pulled on a set of latex gloves before slipping under the police tape, Triela following suit behind into the cramped entryway. Immediately to their left was a slender bathroom, dominated by a chipped claw foot tub beside the door, and stacked washer and dryer at the far end next to a closed and frosted caisson window. Beyond it lay another doorway, assumedly to the bedroom whilst on the right an open arch led through to a combined kitchen, dining and lounge space.

It wasn't large, cooking area a single bench pressed up against the rear wall, two bent wood Thonet chairs present but with the table between missing and no TV. Instead, paintings were propped up around the walls of what would have passed elsewhere for a sitting area, filling it with the smell of linseed. Central to the arrayed canvases, someone had set up drop sheets and an easel to take advantage of the natural light flooding through the three sets of full height French doors.

These were the tiny apartment's crowning glory, opening out onto a huge, gravelled rooftop terrace, easily twice the size of the living space itself. At one end an empty clothesline leaned drunkenly amongst well-kept potted plants and an iron outdoor setting, the exterior walls' yellow hue seeping back in through the doors and across inside surfaces.

That however, wasn't where the sniper had shot from.

Squaring his shoulders, the former Europol investigator stepped into the bedroom.

Here was less pleasantly lived in that the other spaces, the room suddenly feeling cramped, filled with furniture it was never intended to contain. A double bed had been stood roughly against the adjoining bathroom wall, an iron night-stand keeping it company with a heavy wooden wardrobe. Instead, in the centre of the space, the missing dining table had been placed, its stout wooden construction providing a perfect rest to shoot off.

_The man had to be strong in order to move that around by himself, especially without alerting the neighbours._

He turned to his cyborg, standing in the doorway and spoke softly. "Triela, start looking for our next hint, and look hard, it's probably hidden. The first was just to get our attention."

She nodded, disappearing without a word.

Fishing in a coat pocket, the handler pulled out a rifle scope, borrowed from one of the SRT and, removing its end caps, stood at the table and looked down on the street below.

As with the first hide, the shooter's position was well back from the window, concealing him from ground level. His view was however narrow, and Hilshire shuffled around until he could see the square of police tape on the pavement outside. As he watched a dirty cream Alfa Sud 5-door screeched to a halt behind the Polizia car, kerbside wheels bounding up onto the footpath. Five seconds later its occupant stepped out, lighting up a cigarette and offering another to the guard, whom accepted gratefully, sucking in the warming smoke as they stood together talking, trench coats flapping in a passing gust of breeze.

Bending down the detective brought his eye in line with where the shooter's would have been atop the table, shifting sideways a little to see past the skeletal trees in his way, little scraps of fluorescent ribbon snapping back and forward from branches to be removed before spring. The question was; why shoot from here? He could understand not using the terrace as it was open to the surrounding buildings, but surely there were better vantage points than this.

Snapping its end caps back in place, his borrowed scope was returned to a pocket and the handler again looked back through to the living room where his cyborg was checking over the two chairs. Still no luck then, maybe Blacker could give them a hint.

Closing the bedroom door, he pulled out his phone and dialled.

"Hello, Rome tourist bureau."

"Priscilla, it's Hilshire, can you put Jethro on?"

"Sure."

There was the sound of voices and scraping chairs from the speaker whilst, on his own end, Triela edged her way around the door. He beckoned her to enter and close up behind herself.

Covering the phone's pickup out of habit he looked down at her. "Did you find anything?"

Returning the gaze she shook her head, _no_, before setting about the bedroom.

"Speaking," now the voice was masculine and British accented.

"Jethro, Hilshire. We're at the apartment on Via Baldassarre, but so far there's no sign of…"

"Hilshire? It's here."

"…hold on."

Still keeping the mobile glued to his ear, the handler knelt down to where his cyborg had just popped her head out from under the table, pointing at where words had been scrawled under it in a fine, blue brush.

"Looks like you were right, Triela just found another quote," reaching up he pressed on the paintwork, thumbnail sinking into its surface. "Still fairly fresh too… I would guess this is it."

"What does it say?"

Hilshire studied the words again, "_Pallido sua rabbia__, __lava__tutto__l'aria."_

"Pale in her anger, washes all the air," translated Jethro from the other end, "I know that, but I can't place it."

"Me neither."

"I know it," Hilshire's eyes swung to look at his cyborg, "It's from A Midsummer Night's Dream by William Shakespeare, Titania's monologue."

"Did you get that?"

"I did." From the other end of the line came the sound of fevered typing. "She's right, it's Titania's monologue and the full quote is 'No night is now with hymn or carol blessed. Therefore the Moon, the governess of floods, pale in her anger washes all the air'."

There was a pause as that processed. "I will call when we get to Piazza della Cinque Lune."

"I think that might be a good plan."

Hanging up, the German extracted himself from under the table, before waiting for his charge to join him.

"Where did you learn that bit of Shakespeare?"

That earned a querying look. "In English class… _you_ taught it to us."

"Well done."

Head shaking, he pushed the bedroom door open.

"Ahh! Inspector Hilshire!"

Stood in the hall was the same man whom he had earlier seen on the street, short frame blocking the exit and arms opened wide in greeting, giving a clear view past his cream trench coat and navy suit jacket to the ancient Beretta stuffed in one side of a shoulder holster.

"Inspector Berlusconi?"

"Indeed that is I! And who might this be?" continued the inspector, seeing Triela step out of the doorway behind her handler.

"Triela, my assistant."

"A bit young?"

"She's on an internship."

"Well, my pleasure to meet you both."

Inspector Mario Berlusconi turned out to be a man of minimal stature and constant movement. With the stout build of a Tolkin-esque dwarf, he gave the impression of barely managing to contain the compressed energy of a large person in that tiny shell. Wildly gesticulating arms windmilling to block the fratello's exit, he filled them in on the investigation so far.

Winding down as he talked, the inspector finally touched a lit match to another cigarette in blatant disregard to crime scene sterility, and possibly the apartment owner's wishes, before leaning against a wall with a shrug. "…and so we've been canvassing and trying to round up any CCTV footage of the buildings used, but Italy is not America: Big Brother is not always watching here."

"So there has been no progress on who the killer might be then." It was a statement rather than a question.

"None; no witnesses, no fingerprints on cartridge casings… no casings period for that matter. We can't find anything to link his victims…" now he paused to look at the fratello, and Hilshire suddenly became aware of a shrewdness lurking behind those twinkling eyes, "…and frankly, after his last note I'm dubious we will."

"If you're thinking he actually is Padania, then it would certainly give a stronger argument against the shootings being personally motivated."

"The note seems to give that impression, though it could just be there to throw us off the scent as well, like a river for bloodhounds," now the short detective waved his already half-consumed cigarette at the fratello, "and despite his ravings, I'm not certain his actions are those of a nutjob. Nutjobs wear their underpants on their heads, these attacks are clean, planned and professional."

Hilshire glanced at his watch; if he and Triela were to make Five Moons Plaza in any reasonable time, they would need to leave in short order. Unfortunately, Berlusconi was still talking.

"…we think he's had training and experience so are running police and military databases for anyone whom might have turned, but again we have nothing to narrow the lists down."

"Well with your permission, we will keep having a look around; if we find anything useful we shall pass it along to you…" the handler looked more pointedly at his watch, "…and on that note, we had best be moving on to Piazza Della Cinque Lune."

Mario stopped, and then nodded, "Of course, I will give you my number. Since I am here, I may try kicking over the same stones again; it's not like they are coming up with anything useful at Central right now anyway."

Receiving digits scribbled on a scrap of paper, the fratello made haste for the apartment exit, hurrying back the way it had come, back toward the street, their new contact looking contemplatively after them. Stripping off latex gloves, both made use of a garden tap to remove any lingering talc, so as not to mar the interior of Hilshire's car.

Finding a main road, the big Mercedes followed the edge of Parco di Porta Capena's green expanse, before turning north west in avoidance of the Colosseum's tourist trap. Instead skirting the southern extremities of Palatino's palatial ruins, they kept the dry track of the Circus Maximus on their left, to continue past the former seat of government turned museums on Capitoline Hill. Popping out onto the Tiber's eastern bank the handler hugged its curve north, as Testaccio's leafy, modern landscape gave way to Old Rome and, veering right, he plunged back into stone walled streets.

If Rome's citizenry shared that uniquely Latin sense of endless time, their driving formed the other extreme of a bi-polar arrangement, something else the German had needed to adapt to. Horns blared, engines revved and drivers shouted at one another as they pushed and shoved their way through the melee of Roman traffic.

Adapt to perhaps, but never actually get used to, and it was a very relieved Hilshire whom made it into a government reserved parking space on the far end of Piazza Navona, leaving only a short walk to their destination, just off its northern extremity.

* * *

><p>At his commandeered intelligence office desk, Jethro drummed impatient fingers on the woodwork. He wasn't good at waiting, never had been. Admittedly he'd been getting a fair bit of practice of late, but he still couldn't learn to love the experience. Hilshire was taking longer than he should have; perhaps the man had spent too much time in Italy and gone native…<p>

On the table, his phone buzzed.

"Hello?"

"We've found it: '_Pronto prontissimo son come il fulmine: sono il factotum della città', _it's from 'The Barber of Seville'."

The British handler turned that one over on his tongue, "_Pronto prontissimo son come il fulmine: sono il factotum della città... Pronto prontissimo son come il fulmine: sono il factotum della città..._ 'Swifter and swifter, I'm like a thunderbolt: I'm the factotum of the city'. Bloody hell, that could be _anything_."

"Well while you narrow it down, we will keep searching here to see if there's anything else which can be used," with that the line went dead.

Scratching down the quote, Jethro looked across the room to where the department head was leaning over a junior analyst's shoulder. "Priscilla!"

Looking up, the woman started to shake her head in a 'not now' signal, but the handler gestured more emphatically for her to join him.

She looked frazzled, if he was correct then she nor any of her department had been to sleep since the 'go' order had arrived the previous night. "Yes?"

"That hunch Hilshire and I had about the sniper leaving clues to his next target area? Looks like we were correct," he slid the scrap of paper over. "This is from the Barber of Seville, I say we get your girls and boys working on it: grab everything they can and cross-reference it with the city: street names, buildings, events, piazzas... hell, it might even be worth looking up anything to do with Spain. Get them working on that, then we'll give Jean a call and see what he wants to do with it."

Priscilla gave him a look, half borne out of frustrated tiredness, "and you're sure about this?"

"As sure as you can be in this game."

There was a pause as fried brain-cells struggled to make connections. "Good enough for me right now, there's a speaker phone in my office, use that."

* * *

><p>The Pigna van was an uncomfortable and moody place. Finding themselves quickly cold-shouldered by its other occupants, the Stavropoulus fratello had moved to the vehicle's rear; ostensibly so they could be first into action. Now, for what seemed like the umpteenth time, Nikias started to check over his CQB carbine. Across from him Anastasia quickly followed suit, sparing a moment whilst his attention was diverted to glance toward where Rico sat, kicking her feet idly.<p>

If the little blonde noticed the attention she didn't show it, smiling beneficently with one arm clutching at the large, Russian Dragunov marksman rifle leaning up beside her. She was used to waiting in the van, she and Jean were often in the van. It could be a bit smelly at times, but she didn't mind it. Jean was here with her, manning the communications console, surrounded by maps, notes and an open laptop, and if she got too bored she could always slip through to the driver's compartment. Fausto was up there, and he was _always_ nice to her.

There was a frustrated noise from where her handler sat, and she turned back from contemplating the blackout curtain to see him remove his headset and brush his hair back with one hand.

"That damn Blacker girl has left her radio in Pagani's car," he muttered to no-one in particular.

Leaving the ear-cups off for the time being, Jean busied himself over the map covered bench next to him.

Having claimed the driver's compartment to escape the cloying main cabin, Carlos Gallo and Fausto Martinello used their time to go over the crime scene photographs issued with the SRT's briefing packet. Right now, both were wearing the baggy jackets and coveralls of city utilities workers, concealing their combat gear underneath.

Moving another photo to the back of the stack he held, Carlos studied the next image and turned to the hulking mass of his companion. "This guy's no amateur, he's picked these locations carefully."

"I didn't think you went to fuckin' sniper school."

"I didn't, but everyone in the GIS gets marksman training, so I know the basics. Look," quickly he spread three photos from the three separate shootings out, "every location has a good line of sight, plenty of time to spot and track a target, and in every case there's some sort of windspeed marker, see? Old Christmas Decorations at the first, these tree tags at the second and a couple of the hotels in Piazza della Cinque Lune have flags hanging off the front of them. That's no co-incidence, whoever the sniper is, he's thought this through."

"Say that _again_."

Both men froze; the voice had come from behind. Glancing at Fausto, Carlos received a nod and, looking around to make sure there was no-one outside to witness his action, slipped back into the van's rear.

"Say what again Lieutenant Croce?"

"What you were saying about the sniper picking his battlegrounds."

The former GIS man cleared his throat, "I was just saying to Martinello that the crime scenes all shared similar elements, elements that would make a sniper's job easier."

There was a slight pause, then Jean picked up his notepad and pen, handing them to the other man, "Sit down, write out all the common traits you can. Rico, help him. I'm going to call that into Priscilla and she can let the fratelli on the ground know what they want to be keeping an eye out for... hell, I don't know; maybe we can even scrounge a UAV up out of somewhere too."

Carlos glanced down at the girl beside him, who returned a happy smile, "Wilco."

"You do that, I'll..."

Jean's phone rang.

"Croce."

"Hi Jean, it's Priscilla, I've got Jethro here with me. You're on speaker."

The startings of what may have been a smile edged the Field Commander's face, "Good, just the people I wanted to talk to; Carlos here thinks there's common elements across the shooting sites. He's compiling a list right now, I'll email it through once he's done, it might give our people something to look for. Also, see if Ferro can't scrounge up a UAV; I'm sure there are plenty already flying, so I see no reason why we shouldn't add to the air traffic and get some benefit too."

There was a pause at the other end of the line whilst Priscilla noted down the instructions, then Jethro spoke up, "that's going to be good: because we can shorten the list of places to look."

"I'm listening."

"That theory Hilshire and I were onto? It appears like there may have been something in it: the sniper's leaving clues as to where he's going to strike next. We tried it out on Via Baldassarre, and confirmed it on Cinque Lune."

Jean felt a flash of hope, "and you know where he's going to today?"

"Unfortunately not, but we can tighten the search. The next clue is from The Barber of Seville: '_Pronto prontissimo son come il fulmine: sono il factotum della città'._"

The brief hope faded, but not completely, remaining instead as a dry sense of direction, "Well we can't exactly blockade every barber's shop in town."

"I doubt he'd bother leaving clues if he was intending to be that broad."

"No," that was Priscilla, "my boys and girls are grabbing everything they can out of the passage and cross-referencing it with anything in Rome which seems viable: locations, events, people and so on... In the meantime, Jethro here thinks 'factotum of the city' may be a good place to start."

"What the hell's a factotum?" questioned the Field Commander, voice becoming a little testy as the light at the end of the tunnel started to sound very much like an on-coming train.

"Don't feel bad, I had to Google it too," stated the Englishman. "'Factotum: a general servant or person having many diverse activities or responsibilities. Derived from the Latin to command: fac, and totum: do or make everything'. I'd start with places of government or civic power, past and present... the rione administrative centres perhaps... My girl's to the north, I was going to send her to Piazza di Spagna as well to cover the 'Seville' connection."

There was a moment as Jean digested that.

"Alright, do it. Priscilla, feed me anything relevant as your people find it; in the meantime I'm going to start working out a redeployment based on what Blacker just said..." there was another pause, "...and we keep this to ourselves. Everyone else has a day or two head start, so we need every edge we can get."

With that, and without waiting for a reply, he hung up the phone, spreading out his map to begin relocating resources. This was better, suddenly he was no-longer fumbling in the dark.

* * *

><p>A small black and gold bag dangling from one hand, Monty stepped off the raised marble entrance of Bvlgari's boutique, glancing again at her receipt through dark sunglasses with a grimace. Her scent of choice was not cheap by any stretch of the imagination, but what she had just been charged was pure and simple daylight robbery.<p>

_C'est la vie, such was the price of convenience._

Early in life the girl had learned that one could have time or money, but not both, and being permanently short of the former often left her paying tourist prices with the latter. Around her, Via Condotti was quieter than it could have been, but certainly not dead. Despite the combined forces of recession, winter and astronomical holiday travel prices, its deep street still carried some traffic of gawping foreigners and well-heeled shoppers; whether browsing the high-end boutiques of the area, or simply making their way through to the famous Spanish Stair.

There was a buzzing from her pocket and, fishing her phone out, she pressed down hard to activate the touch screen through merino lined gloves.

"Hello?"

"Sick of walking yet?" she recognised the voice immediately.

"Not yet, nowhere near."

"Good, because our detective friends came through," her handler paused, as if consulting a set of notes. "Next clue is from The Barber of Seville: 'Swifter and swifter, I'm like a thunderbolt: I'm the factotum of the city'... big brother is setting out a redeployment as we speak, but I suggested you give Piazza di Spagna a look over if you were close by."

The girl used her sunglasses to cover a sidelong glance up the street to his suggested destination. "I think I can probably manage that."

"Thanks luv, he also says one of our commando types picked a few similarities out of the sniper's previous locations: telltales, long approaches to give him a chance to line up on a target... so keep an eye out. Moscow Rules right?"

"Always."

Hanging up, the cyborg pocketed her phone again and turned toward the piazza.

_Moscow Rules._

The rules themselves had never been a conclusive list, somewhat reflective of the intelligence community from which they ostensibly spawned. However, parts of the directives always remained the same between versions: don't look back, you are never completely alone; never go against your gut; assume nothing; if it feels wrong, it is wrong; Once is an accident. Twice is a coincidence. Three times is an enemy action... and so on. Fictional or no though they made decent generalisations for those working under maximum paranoia, and their mention had become between her and her handler an informal notation that, deep down, something felt _off_.

_Not that she needed reminding right now. Being on the streets of Rome, on an SWA group operation, was entirely too uncomfortable as far as her own anonymity was concerned._

It was only a short walk to Piazza di Spagna, where narrow surrounding streets suddenly opened onto a vista of stone, exotic palms and glossy shop fronts. Directly opposite Via Condotti, the Spanish Stair's wide expanse climbed toward the white steeples of Trinità dei Monti church, resplendent above the city.

Like the street she had entered from, the Piazza was sparsely populated, far removed from the crush of foreign bodies which defined it during peak tourist season. That wasn't to say it was deserted, and people still hovered, or browsed the peripheral shops; mostly couples and occasional singleton taking advantage of the fine weather.

Dropping herself into their slow circuit, Monty took her time to browse carefully organised window displays, alternating her attention between their wares and the reflections cast upon glass by the bright world behind her. Occasionally, using the Bvlgari bag to help lend her presence some credibility, she would duck inside; keeping a clerk talking and taking longer, more defined peeks at the scene.

Returning eventually to where she had started, having sighted nothing suspicious, the girl struck out across the square proper toward the stairs' towering edifice, passing by the still bubbling, even at this time of year, fountain at their base.

138 steps later, she paused at their summit to survey from whence she had come. The view which greeted her was admittedly stunning: a low winter sun throwing long shadows across pavements and rooftops to cast the scene in soft, golden light, cut this way and that by deep, twilight-filled streets. She checked her watch; early afternoon already.

Below, palms waved in the breeze; New Year Eve celebration banners and the occasional flag fluttering alongside them and her eyes moved up to scan the surrounding buildings and byways radiating outward. She was going to need to find a way to kill some time here, though if their mark stayed true to form it may not be for long.

To the north, worn cobblestones stretched away past the church and gardens beyond, hugging the hillside, whilst in the opposite direction the street entered a small square before splitting down two paths. It was an open area, lined again with shops, but nestled under the southern wall gas heaters basked outdoor tables in their warmth.

_Perfect._

It might have been worth doing a circuit of the streets first, but here lay a chance to loiter too good to pass up. The concept of takeaway coffee was next to non-existent in Rome, but this close to such a tourist magnet the café was likely to cater to foreign mores; which meant she would be able to sit and sip rather than drink and dash.

In the cold, compounded by looming danger, the piazza remained mostly empty like its larger cousin below. The café was doing its best though, little pockets of artificial warmth managing to attract one hardy tourist couple to their flame, huddled together up in a corner and a man sat at a front table, one hand resting atop an expensive Nikon DSLR. The couple were difficult to draw a bead on, but _he_ was in plain sight of the street: middle aged, wearing a bulky olive-drab canvas anorak atop finely tailored suiting.

As she watched, the novel he was reading lowered slightly, and suddenly his finger twitched to send the soft sound of a shutter firing through the air to her. Shifting her gaze behind smoked glass, the girl followed the line of his lens to see what lay in his sights.

On the piazza's far side a man and girl were walking along the store fronts, stopping occasionally to peer into windows, the girl excitedly pointing out items of aspiration. It was an innocent scene, a father allowing his pre-teen daughter to dream and fantasise, violin case swinging from one arm... and every single alarm bell in Monty's head went off at once.

Not faltering in her gait, the young agent continued toward the café and, as she crossed the camera's angle, a finger twitched again toward its trigger, before relaxing. Sliding between canvas barriers demarcating the premises edge, she took a seat under a spare heater before being rapidly brought a menu.

As the waiter pulled away scribbling in his pad, her new mark twisted slightly in his seat to look at her. "It's dangerous to be out and about in Rome right now. Are you sure you want to be here?"

Removing her sunglasses and resting one plastic arm's tip between pursed lips, Monty cocked a wry eyebrow. "You're sitting outside as well; does that make you by some means magically more bulletproof than I?"

"No, but I'm old: all I'll miss are a few years of slow decay… besides, if we were all to cower indoors then the sniper wins doesn't he?"

As her sever returned, carrying a copy of _La Repubblica_, the girl gave him a thin smile of one who'd just won the argument by default_._ Accepting the paper she opened its cheap stock out, signalling the conversation ended and her companion turned back to his book, holding it just low enough that he could continue to peer over its top at the piazza beyond.

Eventually the waiter was back with a steaming bowl of minestrone, topped with thin slivers of dry parmesan and accompanied by two slabs of toasted bread as the shutter fired again.

Leaning a little closer to her bowl, Monty used the motion to take a better look at her mark's new subjects, a man and girl; the former in an expensive trench coat, the latter finely dressed and obviously doted upon.

The mental alarms had silenced now, replaced with an icy certainty as another man/girl pair walked by, finding themselves again unwitting street-photography subjects. Remaining careful not to hurry, the spy worked her way through the rest of her meal; each mouthful seeming to take a lifetime until her spoon finally touched the bowl's ceramic bottom.

As the waiter came back to clear her place, she ordered a coffee before standing with him. "Where's your toilet?"

Following his gesture toward the back of the café, Monty collected her shopping bag as the photographer twisted again to see what was happening, before returning to watch the piazza.

Sliding through the café's warmly lit interior, the cyborg cut past its kitchen to a small toilet at the building's rear, flaking paint plastered with gig and theatre flyers. Closing the sturdy wooden door behind her and checking it was locked, she pulled out her phone and, with its scramblers turned on, dialled her handler.

"Hello?"

"Skipper, it's me," she said quickly and quietly, keeping one ear out for anyone approaching. "It's a trap, and our sniper's the bait."

From the other end came only silence so she continued, "I'm in Trattoria di Spagna_,_ above the Spanish Stairs. There's a chap out the front; middle age, combed back hair, probably about five-eight in a suit and olive anorak. He's taking photos of passersby, but only middle age or older men with girls or young women..."

"...and you think he's scouting for fratelli." It was a statement of fact rather than a question.

"Well I can't help but think that deploying the SWA would be exactly the sort of knee-jerk response one could expect from politicising this whole sniper business..."

"...and if the Padania is making up the clues..."

"...then it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to sort out what conclusions _we_ might draw from each and deploy spies accordingly," Monty finished for her partner.

"Jesus." Her partner's voice turned worried now, "and you?"

"No. He started to, but left off, possibly because I'm alone."

There was another silence, but the girl could almost hear wheels turning across the airwaves.

"Ok, I think we'd best pull your chap in and get some facts. Hold tight, I'll have someone move up into position to keep an eye on him and text once they arrive."

"My ride should only be half a click away."

"I shall talk to bigger brother… "

With that the line went dead.

Flushing the toilet and washing her hands, Monty sidled back to the café front. To her relief her mark was still present; and even better for her, the waiter was just arriving with a fresh, steaming, coffee. Taking the first blessed sip of Long Black, she settled in to read the rest of the paper.

* * *

><p>Jethro looked at his phone, and uttered a foul word; he'd known something was off and now had confirmation.<p>

_Sometimes being right sucked._

Standing, he headed for Priscilla's office. The door was shut, and inside the chief analyst was head down on her desk taking a well earned nap. Unfortunately that was about to come to an end.

"Up and at 'em sunshine."

"Fzwuh?"

Jethro however was already leaning over her desk phone, pressing the memory button for Jean's mobile.

"Croce."

"It's a setup."

Now Priscilla was awake and glanced across at the man now propped up on her desk, whilst her brain caught up with recent events. "What's a setup?"

The spy returned the look, still speaking for the phone, "This whole sniper business; first to goad the Government into deploying the SWA in force, and then to concentrate us into specific areas and _single the fratelli out_; and the clues we found are leading us straight into it."

The speaker buzzed. "You were the one who wanted to follow those clues in the first place."

"_Thank you_, for reminding me of my own predictability."

There was a pause.

"If that's true it might explain the winter timeframe," added Priscilla, starting to get a handle on the situation. "Less people on the street means less bodies to pick from."

"You think we should be expecting an attack?" came Jean's voice from his position in the van.

Jethro shook his head. "No, not yet at least, my girl's saying there's a chap up above Piazza di Spagna, taking photos of anyone walking past whom might possibly be a fratello pair."

"And she's sure he's working for the FRF?"

"It could be coincidence," conceded the spy, "and he _could_ be a photographer with a thing for little girls and old men… but his actions are more than I'd like to bet against. More to the point: is that a chance we want to take?"

"Jesus." Across the desk from him, Priscilla shook her head, "We've known the Padans were aware of the cyborgs' existence for a while now, but it's not done them much good beyond being prepared and ready for them to crop up. If they can start identifying individual fratelli however..."

"...then they can start being proactive rather than reactionary; go on the offensive against us without having to just gun down every little girl they see," growled Jean.

"Exactly, which will put a big dent in the girls' and the Agency's major advantage," returned Jethro, then he paused. "I doubt they'll be able to narrow down which girls are ours and which are innocents _this time_. What they _will_ get though is a baseline of candidates to look out for on future operations, and from there it's just joining the dots."

Silence again as three minds went into overdrive.

"The sniper's due to strike in the next hour or two..." came Jean's voice from the phone, then it hardened, "but if this is a setup then I will _not_ be caught gallivanting around to the Padania's tune. To that end the counter snipers can stay in position, but I'm pulling the ground teams back. Meanwhile we bring in Monty's man and find out _exactly_ what he's doing, in excruciating detail. Priscilla; rouse Nina and have an interrogation cell readied, we'll be on our way up to Piazza di Spagnashortly."

"Will do."

"Hold it," Jethro cut across the conversation before his superior could hang up. "I want her out of there before you pick this bloke up."

"No, she'll need to be there until we arrive to keep eyes on target, and time is of the essence."

"No, it isn't... you said yourself that the sniper's due to kill over the next hour or two. We've already decided to pull the ground teams out, and you're not going to be able to pick this chap up, get him back here, wring a confession out of him and then redeploy before that happens; so it's not going to make a lick of difference to whichever poor sap cops it today whether we grab him now or in two hours time," the spy paused. "All things considered up to this juncture, I don't think a bit of extra caution would go down poorly."

"I _assume_ you've put some thought in as to a better way to do this then?"

"Bring one of the nearby counter-sniper teams in to take over, I'm sure they can find themselves somewhere to hide and should be able to cover the piazza at the same time. Once they're in place, pull my girl out. That should hopefully give the Padan or anyone else present enough time to disassociate her from proceedings. _Then_ we move in."

Jethro glanced across the desk at Priscilla, trying to draw some bead on what the likely response from Jean would be. Not working with the rest of the SWA very often, he had little precedent on which to judge the Field Commander's potential reaction; and it was difficult to read someone down a phone line. The other woman however only shrugged with an "I don't know" expression on her face.

Finally the elder Croce's voice issued from the speaker phone, "Priscilla; any word on that UAV?"

The pretty analyst shook her head, setting her wavy hair bouncing back and forth. "No luck I'm afraid; Ferro thinks we might be able to beg, borrow or steal one for tomorrow, but not before then."

"Damn... ok, Blacker; we'll move Pagani from where he is to Monty's position. Once he's on station, shift her out. However, I still intend to move the van up as well; if the mark decides to leave early we will _not_ be waiting around."

"That I can live with."

Without saying anything else, Jean hung up.

* * *

><p>Laying stomach down on a shooters blanket, Kara looked across the city of Rome from her perch atop San Carlo al Corsa's dome. Her perch gifted a prime view over terracotta rooftops and deep streets, whilst remaining invisible to those below. It was more than half a kilometre before she risked coming eye to eye with another soul, as the land rose again eastward to the twin turrets of Trinità dei Monti.<p>

Leaving her bullpup rifle rest on its supports she started to scan the area again, relying on superb cyborg vision to build a detailed picture, rather than the gun's telescopic scope.

It was cold in the church tower, icy tendrils leaching up through stone flooring and a chill breeze blowing through its open arches. Part of her was really regretting having chosen a skirt for today. Fortunately, some of that issue was solved by a tartan rug her handler had thoughtfully stowed in the car, and now rested across her legs as the wind whistled around columns, humming past the bells above.

He was sat behind her, a tripod mounted spotter scope to one eye. As she glanced around the girl saw Michele touch at his ear, listening to something on the radio. That movement, trying to hear better, was a difficult reflex to get rid of, even for experienced agents and was one of the things handlers and staff worked hard to train out of both themselves and their charges.

Of course some had their own means by which to combat the issue... though Jean had not sounded happy when they had reported Monty's leaving her own radio in the FF's glovebox.

"Got it."

Her handler's voice cut easily through altitude-muted background noise, and Kara looked around again just in time to see his hand drop away. "Pack yourself away Kara, we're moving."

Kneeling up, the girl let the rug slide off her and started to break down her rifle, stowing it in its bassoon case as each component came away, starting with the subsonic weapon's suppressor. "Where are we going?"

Stowing his own equipment, Michele began folding the rug, remaining careful to stay low and out of sight. "Jean needs us to go and support Monty at Piazza di Spagna, apparently there's more pieces to this puzzle than anyone originally realised."

"Why does Monty get to go to Piazza di Spagna, _I _want to go to Piazza di Spagna," mumbled the cyborg.

Finishing, her handler draped bright tartan fabric over the scope's bag, hiding it from view. "Well get a move on and you can. Jean said to hurry."

_Damn, she must have said that louder than intended_.

"Looking at it through a scope isn't the same."

"Well, get this done and I'll let you borrow my AmEx card…"

"Thank you!"

"…for _one_ purchase."

Snapping the instrument case's clasps shut, Kara smiled and nodded her understanding enthusiastically… mentally translating "one purchase" to "one outfit"; and a new dress would of course need new shoes to go with it, and possibly new jewellery as well. Thoughts still half on the possibilities, she followed her handler carefully down the awkward access way which ran between the church's outer and inner domes, before descending into the chapel proper.

Pausing before they entered the church's public areas, Michele turned to his charge. "Stay here for a minute, then wait just inside; I'll go and get the car."

"I think I should go with yo…"

"_No_, wait. Do _not_ have me make it an order."

Without pausing to see if he got a reply, the handler was gone, leaving Kara standing alone and stunned in the stone stairway. It wasn't like Michele to snap at her like that, not unless he was really worried about something, or she had fouled up _incredibly_, and she hadn't done the latter… at least she didn't remember doing the latter… had she? He'd let her drive after they dropped Monty off, had she sped? Or run a red light she shouldn't have? Maybe it was the comment when she was packing up…

Remembering his instruction the girl counted to sixty, then let herself out into the vestibule.

Congregation long departed, the church was left empty until evening. In its silence she moved to a side entrance and waited, worrying, until the big Ferrari's unmistakable V12 engine note heralded its arrival. As it rolled to a standstill Kara quickly put her rifle in the boot and slid into the passenger seat.

Before she could do up her seatbelt Michele had the car moving, and in the safety of its interior he started to talk. "According to Jean, this sniper business is a Padania ploy to draw the SWA out so they can identify us. The ground teams are slowly withdrawing from the field as we speak, so soon it will be just the counter-snipers and Monty left. She's got one of the Padan spies under surveillance; we need to take over so she can withdraw as well before Jean moves in to pick him up."

Internally, Kara breathed a sigh of relief: he _had_ been worried, she wasn't in trouble. Mind now stilled, something else registered as another street flashed passed.

"That was the way to Via Condotti…"

"Not this time. The mark is in one of the piazzas above di Spagna, so we'll head north then come back along the hillside so as not to drive past him and draw attention to ourselves."

"It would be quicker to come from the south, and I don't think anyone would notice another car driving past."

Choosing not to answer that, Michele instead concentrated on threading his loud, expensive, supercar through Roman traffic, skirting Piazza del Popolo, then swinging onto the climb toward Pincio Hill on the city's northern extremity. Cutting back southeast along its flank between gardens and the drop back toward town, the handler found a public car space and reversed his Ferrari into the angle park before turning to his charge.

"Apparently the Padans are on the lookout for men with girls or teenagers. You go first, use one of the garden-side entrances to the church. I'll follow in a couple of minutes and meet you in the southern bell tower. You understand?"

"Yes Michele."

"Then go, and stay sharp, I'll see you shortly."

Exiting the car, the cyborg collected her weapon and headed into manicured gardens behind the road; or at least they would have been manicured, had there been anything to keep trimmed. In the depths of winter only bare branches welcomed her, offering little in the way of cover, and she hurried along, searching constantly for hidden watchers.

_Was this how Monty and Mr. Blacker lived; every single day waiting for the next disguised bogyman to leap from an apparently innocent closet, with little to no hope of seeing a friendly face?_

Suddenly feeling very alone she arrived at Chiesa della Trinità del Monti, and slipped in through another side door, closing it behind her and pressing back into the shadows until she had surveyed the entire space.

_Empty also, bar an elderly lady wrapped in her own prayer near the front of the nave. _

Reaching inside her jacket, Kara loosened her Five-seveN in its holster and then stepped out quietly, staying close to the wall until she reached the southern bell tower stair. Taking one more cautious look around, she opened the portal slightly and let herself in, climbing the square, narrow shaft until she pushed up through a trap door onto the tower's top.

There wasn't a lot of room up here, and she laid out the blanket to one side before quickly assembling her rifle, body still in the stairwell. The balustrade here was of open stonework, and not being particularly high up she would have to stay as low as possible. Settling the scope into place, she hoisted herself onto the platform proper, laying prone, the gun to her shoulder. Chambering a round, the SWA sniper peered through her glass at the piazza.

The café wasn't difficult to pinpoint, and she quickly found Monty, the other girl apparently reading the paper and sipping a coffee. She was just starting to look at the other occupants when a creak of hinges signalled her handler's arrival. Glancing around to check it was indeed him she returned to the scene below.

"Our mark is a middle aged man, combed back hair, about a hundred and seventy-eight centimetres, wearing a suit and olive anorak. Can you see him?"

"Olive anorak, middle aged; I seem him, two tables from Monty."

Hauling himself fully out of the trapdoor, Michele lowered it back down and touched his ear. "Zero Alpha, Monza. Zero Alpha, Monza. Over."

The radio crackled. _"Monza, Zero Alpha."_

"Monza is in position and has eyes on target: middle age male, suit and olive anorak," stated the handler succinctly, trusting the SWA's scrambler gear to prevent eavesdropping.

"_Eyes on target confirmed. Hold position and await further instructions. We're about ten minutes away, let me know if anything changes."_

"Roger that, Monza out."

Starting to unpack the spotter scope again he turned to the girl laying beside him. "That's our man, Jean says to hold position and monitor until further instructed."

Kara's eye never left her sight and she reached up, adjusting it to keep both their mark and Monty in view. "Yes, Michele."

Through the glass, the Franco-Japanese cyborg saw her sister's phone light up. Taking her eyes briefly from the newspaper Monty reached down to read what it said before glancing at her watch with a grimace. Quickly typing a reply message she returned to whatever she had been reading.

"Michele, do you think the sniper will strike here?"

"I honestly don't know; from what's been said he's slowly escalating the prominence of the sites he chooses… but Piazza di Spagna would need to be pretty close to the top of that escalation in terms of public attention, at least on par with the Colosseum."

Down in the piazza below, Monty apparently finished her article and, checking her watch again, signalled the waiter, handing over a couple of notes. Soon he was back with change and the short haired spy collected her belongings; which included, Kara noted with a little pang of jealousy, a black Bvlgari bag.

_I bet no-one will say a _thing_ either. If I went shopping on the job I'd be accused of slacking off._

Slipping out between the café's barriers, the globetrotting girl said something to her, and now the Paganis', mark which apparently elicited a chuckle and Kara watched his eyes follow her down the street, away from the church, trench coat flapping in her wake.

Whilst his cyborg remained focused on the photographer, Michele tracked Monty until she rounded into another street and was gone… then his earpiece crackled.

"_Monza, Zero Alpha. We're in position. SitRep."_

"Target is still in place. Magny-Cours left two minutes ago."

"_Roger, Monza. Hold position and keep me updated. Zero Alpha, out."_

Time slunk slowly by. Five, ten, thirty… it wasn't until the long hand of Michele's Brietling Chronograph was moving in on the sixty minute mark his radio sounded again. By now the sun was starting to sink toward the horizon, and in the cooling air what issued forth was a relief to hear.

"_Monza, Zero Alpha. Standby to lend support fire if requested."_

"Monza. Roger."

The handler lifted his head up slightly to get a wider view of the piazza spread out below him and his cyborg. Across the space, two men were approaching in city worker coveralls; one wheeling a bicycle and the other carrying a small toolbox. Putting his eye back to the spotter scope, Michele trained it on them.

"Showtime, Kara."

Continuing over the cobbled space from the direction Monty had disappeared, Fausto and Carlos idled toward where the photographer was just paying his own bill. Seeing what was happening the two SRT men quickened their pace, but were still a good five meters off as their target stepped away.

From the middle of the piazza there was a crash of falling tools and Carlos was reaching for the Glock concealed under one arm. As the metal case bounced across the ground their quarry turned.

"Freeze! Police!"

The line was spur of the moment, and didn't have its intended effect either. The other man spun away, legs starting to run for the Spanish Stair and the massive Fausto dropped his borrowed bicycle to hurl himself forward, crashing into the runner and bearing him to the ground. Keeping one knee in the fugitive's back the commando produced a set of handcuffs, and as Carlos jogged up a white, unmarked Ducato van rolled into the scene. As it levelled with the two ostensible policemen its rear doors burst open and they bundled themselves, their catch and his belongings inside before, with a slam of metal and squeal of tyres, it was gone.

Over the radio Jean's voice issued again. _"All callsigns, all callsigns this is Zero Alpha. Withdraw immediately. I say again: withdraw immediately. Zero Alpha, out."_

Listening in to her own earbug, Kara looked at her handler, "Will we still be able to…"

"You heard the man Kara; _immediately_."

"Aww."

"Now, now... I'm sure you can survive another day before your next attempt to max out my credit."

* * *

><p>Taking another read through the final paragraph she had just written, Monty picked up her coffee mug to steal another sip, and pulled a disgruntled face as only a few cold drips slithered their way onto her tongue. Deciding that was probably as good of a sign as any that it was time to wrap things up, she sent the document to Acrobat and glanced at her watch.<p>

_Yes it was time to move on._

Saving the generated PDF file to her local drive, she set two hardcopies printing, then placed a digital version into the SWA's secure intranet dropbox; flagging notifications to Ferro, Priscilla, Jean, Jethro and Chief Lorenzo. Across the room, one of the two handlers' office printers hummed to life, the clicking, tearing sound of it sucking A4 sheets from its hopper punctuating the air with a regular beat.

The machines were quick, but not that quick, and as she stood the man seated across glanced up from where he was typing his own report. While the SWA was unusually busy for a holiday, the office they had to themselves as, with less to write down, the bulk of personnel had deserted it in pursuit of other ways to occupy their evening.

_Needing a solid chunk of time to even get back to the compound hadn't helped her cause either._

Some of the more stringent and focused handlers had taken their charges to the obstacle course or one of the shooting ranges; seeking to make productive use of the time if they had to be here anyway. However most, at least she figured most, had retired somewhere more relaxing, leaving their girls to their own devices.

"You're done?" enquired Michele, eyeing her across the top of his iMac.

"Just about…" the printer beeped, "…give me a moment."

Leaving the desks behind, Monty collected her papers, already neatly stapled by the machine, and pulled two brown Manila envelopes from the stationary cabinet.

"Just about," she said, picking up the conversation again as she returned. "I'll land one of these on Jean's desk then go find Jethro, lest he get himself in trouble for being late to tonight's briefing."

The handler opposite her glanced at his own watch. "That's not for another hour yet."

On her desk, the girl slipped a copy of her report into each envelope, before turning them over to bang a large "CLASSIFIED" stamp on each. "Not for you maybe, but we need to catch Jean and Priscilla before everyone heads in."

"Sounds enthralling."

Sticking a piece of delicate red tape over the flap of each envelope to seal them, Monty gave him a flat look. "I imagine it will be."

Closing her computer up, the cyborg opened the lockable filing cabinet at the desk's end to dump one of the documents into a thick folder marked "in" for her handler to read whenever he next returned. The other she tucked with her computer under one arm. "See you in an hour."

Threading between desks and out of the office, Monty turned down the corridor running along its glazed length until she reached one of the cross-ways which bisected the courtyards. The ground floor had heavy doors leading out into an open colonnade, but above that enclosed passages and stairs linked levels, and she climbed upwards.

A floor higher the corridor was windowless, forgoing an open plan layout for individual rooms, before terminating at the building's end and Chief Lorenzo's own office; with its small anteroom and adjoining separate living quarters for him and his steward, used on those nights the SWA's commander didn't have time to go home.

The other rooms were occupied by senior members of the operational staff, left empty, or piled high with the slowly accumulating bureaucratic detritus any organisation of size generated. Ferro's office was up here, and Giorgio's, though he barely used it. Technically Priscilla's desk resided on this level as well, but she preferred to be amongst her own people in her glass walled cubicle, closing its venetian blinds should privacy be required.

Jean's office was situated facing into the central courtyard, sharing a wall with Lorenzo's. Receiving no reply when she banged on its solid timber door, Monty twisted the handle and let herself in.

Inside was a picture of ordered chaos, the large desk dominating it covered in short stacks of paper, their overflow finding its way in amongst books, folders, occasional military trinkets and archive boxes on the surrounding shelves. While the SWA did its best to keep things electronic, its Field Commander still preferred to have his documents in hard copy, and those which didn't arrive as such found themselves much lower on the priorities list for perusal.

Dropping her own report into the nearly empty in-tray, Monty resisted the urge to have a quick flick through what else lay in front of her. She had other places to be, and besides; the two small dome cameras in the hall would be monitored, if she was too long in here someone would likely start asking awkward questions.

Closing the door behind herself again, the girl went in search of her partner.

* * *

><p><em>Schlick.<em>

Another thick slick of paint appeared on the canvas in front of Jethro. The SWA's collection of fast-drying acrylics favoured quick movements with hard, defined strokes, and so he worked in sweeping gestures, unconstrained by the intricacies of his usually favoured oils. Technically the art supplies in this room were meant for the cyborgs, however the canvas in front of him presented a far more pleasant way to think than just brooding in a chair, and he intended to make the most of the rare opportunity to do so.

"Come on Van Gough; we've got places to be."

Glancing around, his eyes found a slender shape leaning against the art-room's door frame, its arms crossed over a laptop computer.

"Is it that time already?"

"Uh huh," replied Monty from where she stood.

Not moving from that spot, she waited patiently whilst her handler cleaned his brushes, trowel and pallet, before switching his borrowed artist's smock for a suit jacket; the latter laid neatly across high tables next to a large, cast-iron, flat bed printing press. From under where it had been he produced his own stack of papers, and headed out the exit, falling into step beside his girl.

"So you found me alright then."

Looking up, her face was flat. "Well, you weren't with the rest of the spooks, and after that there's only so many other places you're likely to have run off to… How much useful do you think we're likely to learn this evening?"

"Not certain… your photographer's been in with Nina for a while, so he'll likely have squawked, but even then I'm not sure how much he'll know…"

"…and considering how quickly everyone else was out of the office this afternoon, I doubt they've a lot to add," finished his partner for him.

Outside, darkness had taken over the sky, clouds starting to boil in one corner against the stars, their contours glowing faintly thanks to the insignificant life forms scuttling beneath. Closer to home, lights still burned in the cyborg dormitory and, slightly further afield, the handler's annex.

Finding their way to the briefing amphitheatre, the Blackers discovered it already occupied. At the speaker's podium, Jean fettled something, whilst Priscilla was engaged in a quiet conversation with Victor Hilshire.

"I see you finally made it back then," put in Jethro as he and his cyborg entered, looking toward the German.

Hilshire scrubbed at one eye. "Just. Priscilla and Jean asked me in to talk before this debrief, so I decided it would be easier to come straight here and make my report face to face now too. I will have to do the hard copy version later."

"And?"

"Nothing you don't already know, Blacker."

Standing up straight again, Jean looked down at the podium monitor's clock, then around at his companions, eyes finally resting on the sole cyborg in their midst. "We'd best get this straightened out before the rest arrive."

Moving to stand around a display table set next to the podium, the others let the Field Commander continue. "As you're all aware the photographer we brought in has now spent a few quality hours with Nina. The short story is that yes; Jethro, Monty, your suspicions were correct and he is Padania. Beyond that though he doesn't know a whole lot; he knows there are at least another half-dozen others like him whom were given cameras and told where to go and what to look for. However, they were all briefed separately and he was unfortunately bright enough not to ask questions."

"And we're positive he's not lying?" put in Monty.

Jean grimaced. "As sure as can be reasonably expected. _Unsavoury_, though some of Nina, or her handler's for that matter, methods may be: she gets results and has an uncanny knack for knowing when she's finally managed to bleed the truth out of someone."

"So we _were_ being set up."

Priscilla nodded, "Looks like."

"And we played straight into their hands," finished Hilshire, bitterly. Beside him, Jethro only nodded.

"What scares me," continued Priscilla, "is the level of forward planning and sophistication we're starting to see out of the Padania. To now it's been all too easy to think of them as not looking much further than the next attack, but this… this is starting to show more proactive, strategic thinking."

"Then we're just going to have to find a way to counter it," stated Jean, and his face was hard. "I'm not about to let them play us for fools again, but the fact doesn't change that this sniper still needs to be brought in. Frankly we don't know how many rats the Padania has deployed looking for us, but I'm willing to bet it's more than six. For now I'll be modifying our deployment patterns to keep the fratelli as much off the streets as possible. Hilshire, Blacker… that means less eyes on the ground. You're going to need to isolate out his next clue as quickly as possible so Priscilla and I can look at potential targets…" He paused, "…I'll pick the rest up in the briefing, there's no point in telling you everything twice. Go have a drink or a bite then be back before everyone else is."

Gratefully, Hilshire and Priscilla headed for the door.

"Grab me a coffee could you luv?" intoned Jethro as his girl made to go after them.

She nodded and he turned back to Jean as her high-heeled footsteps receded. Despite what extra leniencies and opinions she was allowed when on campus, at the end of the day, Monty was still a cyborg, an underling to most, and this next bit would be easier without her present.

"If you want us to isolate out the sniper's next pointer as quickly as possible, it might be worth holding Monty here to help rather than putting her back out in the field."

"The answer's still 'no' Blacker. I'm short enough on deployable manpower as it is; I _can't_ afford to give up another warm body." Now Croce looked up from where he had been working at the podium, locking eyes with the other handler. "But this isn't about needing her at the compound to help is it?"

_Well, it had been worth a shot._

"No, it isn't; I don't want her out there Jean. The cyborgs' ability to hide in plain sight is decreasing by the week, the fact that this whole sniper business has even been staged is evidence of that, and I don't want Monty out there whilst they're specifically working to single out SWA personnel."

"Which is exactly _why_ I need her in on the ground." The Field Commander now moved out from behind his lectern, leaning instead against the display table, arms crossed. "She can observe, think for herself, operate independently and, more to the point: look natural doing it… and of course without a handler she's less likely to draw Padan attention to start with. The cyborgs are strong, fast, deadly and follow orders to the letter; but we're _not_ an intelligence organisation, and I'm short assets able to do what she does, and do it _effectively_."

"And I understand that…" Jethro paused, thinking how to phrase his next words, because Jean's point was valid; but so was his, "…but you said it yourself: we're one of the best, if not _the_ best, intelligence assets you have, and a major part of what allows us to keep being so is that we work _very _hard remain disassociated from the SWA and Italy. Every time we operate locally, or in a group deployment, a little more of that protection erodes away. _Please_ don't jeopardise that for the sake of one job. Now more than ever we need to hold some cards in reserve… and despite it not being the crux of the argument; she _will_ be useful piecing clues together here as well."

Jean held his subordinate's gaze, letting the seconds tick past. Then he sighed. "I'll _think _about it."

"Thank you."

With that the British handler turned away to meet his cyborg, whom had just returned carrying two steaming coffees and with the Pagani fratello in tow. Moving back behind the lectern, Croce watched the four as they moved to take seats midway up the rows, Monty carefully placing a handler on either side of herself.

Blacker had a point regarding the girl, but there were other pressures also in play and she was a resource he could ill afford to misappropriate. Frankly, he would have preferred to stay right out of the whole sniper hunt mess, but the decision hadn't been his and, now that they were here, the SWA needed to deliver. The powers that be still possessed a tendency to view The Agency as some form of magic bullet; able to banish the Padania's bogeymen and hold the reaching monsters of Italy's enemies at bay and out of sight. When that perception, however deranged, got damaged those same powers tended to be disappointed… and disappointment inevitably led to questioning of their massive budget and the usefulness of the cyborg program as a whole. Never mind what had been achieved in the past; in the fast-paced world of politics there was nothing quite so tiresome as yesterday's hero.

Others were starting to file in now, and in their midst Hilshire and Priscilla made their return, tailed by the German's cyborg. As the last people took their seats Ferro, whom had been waiting outside, closed the door and nodded to Jean.

Leaning against his lectern again, the Field Commander cast a steely gaze around the room, silencing the very few conversations in progress, and let the moment hang. Then he took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

"Well, I'm sure you have all seen the news by now," his voice was low and flat, clad in steel and disappointment at the people arrayed before him, "but for those who have been living under rocks: the press's 'Roman Sniper' struck again, this time on Capitoline Hill… and got away; again. In other words: We. Failed."

His eyes did another sweep of the room. "Needless to say, the politicians are not happy; in part because failure's damaging their public perception, and in part because tomorrow is this barstard's deadline for sending his political message public, and who knows what trouble that will stir up. People are frightened already, and I doubt the Government wants to give them a direction in which to vent it."

Taking a moment to sip at his now cold coffee, Jean then stood a little straighter. "The one bright patch in all this is that il Campidoglio was one of the sites we were able pick out as potential targets, thanks to the efforts of Hilshire and Mr. Blacker here…" he went back to the same intense expression, "_…unfortunately_, there was no-one around to make good on that."

_Beat._

"Whatever rumours you may have heard about our sudden withdrawal, let me put them to rest _now_: the sniper isn't meant for Rome. The sniper is meant for _us_."

A murmur shot around the room, and Brian McDonnell half-raised a hand. "What do you mean by 'us'?"

"By 'us', Brian, I mean _us_: the Social Welfare Agency." Another pause, but the room remained dead silent. "This afternoon, Monique identified a Padan spy near Piazza di Spagna; one of the potential target areas for today's shooting we had been able to isolate. _He_ has just spent the rest of the evening in an interrogation cell with Nina…"

That elicited a wince from more than a few seated in the amphitheatre.

"The Roman sniper is bait, a ruse intended to pressure the government into deploying its trump card, the SWA, with the specific intention of beginning to identify our cyborgs and fratelli. Right now they're at the stage of photographing any man and girl pair that walks past, but it won't take long for them to start narrowing things down… I don't think I need to tell you the potential ramifications of their being able to pick us out in a crowd."

Now he took another deep breath and stood straight again; facial features settling into a look of determination. "Be that as it may, the barstard still needs to be stopped, and as such deployments for tomorrow have been changed drastically. For starters: only those fratelli with proven and extensive covert or undercover experience will be back on the streets. With the exception of Nihad and Caprese, the SRT will be joining them plain clothes to help make up numbers; so Giorgio, get your people squared away."

"In turn, those fratelli with sharp shooter experience will be re-tasked as counter-snipers to fill the gaps left by the SRT; the rest will be deploying as additional fast-response teams; whether in the vans or individual vehicles…"

From around the room came a murmur, quickly quashed by Jean's glare.

"We'll be able to drop a bigger hammer this way should we locate the target, but our actual coverage will be much thinner in terms of seeking him out. Ferro has managed to source us a UAV, but from what the weather man is saying it may no longer do us much good; so we're back to using our own eyes. Look hard, but for those on the ground, watch for any extra Padan rats skulking around. They're there, we just need to spot them before they spot us. If you encounter one; report it in and we will look to picking them up for... _questioning_."

He took another sip of coffee. "Alright, onto individual assignments. Pagani, Mehrandish, Fio; you're back on counter-sniper duty, and will be joined by, Jose…"

In the seat beside his partner, Jethro kept one ear on the briefing, listening for her name. With the only the SRT and those fratelli who had some practice at not looking like fratelli on the street, it was little wonder Jean had wanted her also to bolster numbers. However, as the list of assignments went on she was never mentioned.

Eventually the Field Commander looked up from where he was reading. "…For those who have a new role, the armoury has been instructed to remain open late, so re-equip yourselves tonight rather than in the morning. With the exception of Hilshire and Blacker, everyone is to be on the ground by zero eight hundred. Ferro has sent out revised information packets for you. Make sure to read them, then get some sleep; some of you have longer drives tomorrow than others. Dismissed."

From around the space sounded a general shuffling of movement as tables were stowed and bodies pried from their plastic supports.

"Well, we may have written the longest reports," put in Michele, stretching and looking down to Monty, "but it looks like we may be the earliest to bed."

"Speak for yourself," deadpanned the girl back, "Priscilla's people are currently up in Rome, going over Capitoline Hill and every other potential shooting site identified with cameras and fine tooth combs. We're about to start sorting all that to try and figure out anything which may have singled it out, beyond what we already know."

"I'm surprised Hilshire and Triela aren't headed that way as well."

The young spy shook her head. "The Police haven't found the sniper's latest hide yet, but they'll be out first thing in the morning to try and get a look in. Besides; Hilshire still has a report to write."

Beside her, Jethro nodded; it looked like being another sleepless night. Standing, he pressed his hands into the small of his back, arching his spine to work the kinks out, then reached down to place a palm between his partner's shoulder blades and gently motion her up as well.

"Come on luv, we're supposed to be back at Spook Central shortly and I intend to scrounge a bite and more coffee beforehand."

Bidding farewell to the Pagani fratello, the Blackers made their way down the seating's end aisle and toward the exit, passing Jean as they went.

Pausing momentarily as they came level with the man, Jethro nodded to him. "Thank you."

"If you want to thank me; _deliver_."

* * *

><p>Overnight, bleak clouds had rolled in to replace sunny clear skies, hanging heavy above the terracotta rooftops of Rome and clothing the city in grey dress. With them also came a drop in temperature, prompting Triela to wrap the heavy coat tighter around herself as she looked across the arcing travertine patterns of Piazza del Campidoglio's pavement, over four storeys below. Beyond the end of Capitoline Hill and across the Tiber, framed by the plaza's buildings, lay Vatican City, the walls leading to it seeming to stretch away forever as the Michelangelo's trapezoidal design played tricks with perspective.<p>

The sniper's position here was different from those used previously. For starters it was outdoors, covered only by a small roof. Second it was in a public building; surrounded by museums and galleries with banners and flagging flapping in the breeze, advertising new artefacts or shows contained within; a magnet for foreigners rather than locals. Stepping out of the way of a passing junior detective, the girl took the opportunity to look along the roof of the Palazzo Senatorio and then up to the squared off the bell tower with its massive clock looming above her, its top almost lost to cloud. She hadn't been able to find anything on this rooftop, but there was still one more level up there and a ladder, tucked into a handily dark corner.

_Whoever the Roman Sniper was, he was getting bolder._

She looked around; Hilshire was to one side, discussing something with Inspector Berlusconi, the tall, gaunt German a statue next to his wildly gesticulating companion. The tower seemed not to have drawn the interest of anyone else yet, so she may as well take the opportunity to beat them to it.

Unsealing her coat, Triela double checked her pistol was safely stowed and swung onto the ladder, climbing rapidly until she emerged onto the level above. Moving to where the clock's face curved up over the tower's parapet, she looked down onto empty air and the plaza floor far below. She was no sniper, her own chosen shotgun lay in the back of Hilshire's car, but she figured in the role she'd want to be as far up as possible; and from what her handler had said, the preliminary autopsy of the killer's latest victim indicated they'd been shot from a high angle.

Deciding that was as good of a reason as any to start here, the girl turned back to the sheltered space behind, beginning her search over stone and metal.

It was only on her second pass over the back of the clock that she found what she was looking for. Like its predecessors the message was written in a tiny, neat script and jammed up into a corner; difficult to find, even for a cyborg. It was short too, much shorter than previously. Committing it to memory, she headed back for the balustraded rooftop below.

By now her handler had moved away from Berlusconi, whom was conversing with one of his own officers, and instead leaned against the stone rail, borrowed rifle scope dangling in one hand as he thought.

As she pulled up beside him, the German looked down at her and spoke softly, "Did you find anything, Triela?"

The cyborg nodded, _"panem et circense."_

"Are you sure that's it?"

"I couldn't find anything else up there if that's what you're asking."

Nodding, Hilshire extracted his phone and dialled Jethro.

* * *

><p>"<em>Bread and circuses<em>... that's a bit different."

Jethro glanced at his girl, then back to the speaker phone again, laying atop the clutter of Priscilla's desk. One hand supported his weight on the heavy woodwork, whilst the other remained across Monty's shoulders, thumb absent-mindedly massaging the artificial muscle at the base of her neck. "It is, and that's what worries me. The ancient poet whom wrote those words was ill-content with the leadership of the day..."

"You think it might be a statement on that? A signifier that he intends to change the game?" asked the desk's owner from its opposite side.

"Considering the words and timing yes: I think he'll be out to make a statement."

"So where does that leave us?" put in Jean from the other end of the line.

"Well the words specifically refer to the Roman games..." started Jethro.

"...so check anything related to those," continued Monty for him, "and considering how the sniper's been escalating things, I'd start with the Colosseum and Circus Maximus. If he wants to make a statement, they would be about the most high-profile locations going covered by that clue's stipulation."

"Piazza Navona as well," added the SWA's intelligence superintendent. "It used to be a Roman stadium."

"For that matter we'll probably want to check _all _stadiums," growled Jean unhappily over his mobile, "and places of public entertainment."

"Considering the age of the quote, start on the ancient ones," returned Jethro. "Who's closest to the Colosseum and Circus?"

There was a rustle of paper down the phone line. "Nihad's just about on top of the former, but after him the nearest available ground personnel are... Hilshire and Triela, up on il Campidoglio."

"And they're busy investigating"

"Not anymore they're not," said the field commander matter-of-factly. "They've found today's message; they can go straight to the Circus Maximus whilst Nihad moves on the Colosseum. Ricci should be able to take Navona... so where else? Surely there's another few choices scattered around Rome."

"My boys and girls are already working on it."

* * *

><p>Fisbik was first into the Colosseum, Tanfoglio T95 up and ready whilst Nihad followed behind, feet traipsing the sandy floors as gladiators of old inevitably finding their way to the amphitheatre's stage floor. Reaching its stone arch portal, the smaller man stopped short, just beyond the reach of dim light from an overcast day.<p>

"See anything Filippo?"

The answer was a shake of the head, followed by a quick jerk, the spotter motioning his partner forward to have a go. Creeping level, the huge Somali crouched down, scanning the patch of amphitheatre which could be glimpsed through the archway once, before flipping open his scope and shouldering the bolt-action Accuracy International rifle he carried with a rustle of navy Gore-Tex. Starting high, he began a careful and methodical sweep.

It was quiet down here, and dark, the attraction drawing little interest from a fearful city, leaving ringing emptiness throughout the normally bustling complex. Somehow it seemed fitting: a microcosm of the oppressive, deserted streets around, silent and empty as fear finally started to take Rome's citizenry. On the taller northern face, high arches scraped the bottoms of heavy clouds, warm hued stonework threatening to puncture those grey sacks suspended above in a flurry of snowflakes; a dour lid on this most ancient of arenas.

Eventually Nihad lowered the rifle and shook his head also.

"Not surprised; this fucker strikes in the afternoon, so he's probably not a morning person anyway," put forward Filippo. "So what now?"

"Make camp, and we wait."

"Going to have trouble covering the entire thing with just us."

The pair's shooter was quiet for a second, and when he spoke his deep voice was soft. "We will... but the sniper seems to like a roof over his head. If we set up somewhere here in the south, we should be able to cover his most likely options."

"That'll put us lower than him." It wasn't an objection, just the statement of one playing devil's advocate. "Though if we were in the north neither of us could see down through solid concrete either."

Nihad nodded and stood to move, his partner quickly taking the point position again, 9mm ready for some as yet unknown foe.

"Builder's tape," put in Filippo, gesturing to where railings and block work had been marked with bright yellow ribbons, "perfect wind gauge."

As it turned out, the spotter's concerns were proven well founded. With less of the southern structure surviving, the SRT men were forced lower to find a decent hide. At least they had time to make properly scarce, and as the frigid hours ticked by with only the occasional tourist passing through, it became more obvious they probably could have spent much longer locating a perfect vantage point.

_Such was the clarity of hindsight._

Back on the rifle again, Nihad looked away from its scope for a moment to glance at his watch. Under the grey clouds it was difficult to keep a handle on time, and in the waiting game, hours could turn to minutes just as easily as they went the other way.

_Just after one in the afternoon, which meant..._

"I've got movement, high left. Ski-jacket and bag."

Shifting slightly, the SWA counter-sniper brought what his spotter had seen into frame. There _was_ a man up there, walking alone along the upper, restricted concourse, his outline squared off and streamlined by a slate-grey ski-jacket: its high collar just hiding his chin. A black beanie covered his scalp whilst in one hand he carried a similarly hued, ballistic nylon duffle bag. He couldn't have gotten far on the street dressed like that, not with the way the city was feeling right now...

"Zero Alpha, Sagittario One." Nihad's voice was quiet, the big man barely moving as he spoke. "We have a potential hostile, Colosseum, top level. Male, approximately one-niner-zero centimetres. Grey jacket, black duffle."

There was a moment before his earpiece crackled. _"Sagittario, Zero Alpha. Copy that, do not engage until given clearance to do so, we're checking now to make sure no-one has people in the area."_

"Wilco. Recommend looking for a vehicle nearby as well, he can't have gotten far without one looking like he does."

"_I will pass it on. Stay sharp."_

"Sagittario, out."

Attention now back on the job, the big Somali started to track again when...

"Fuck. I lost him."

"Huh?"

"I fucking lost him," Filippo growled, "he ducked behind the wall up there."

He was right too, their suspect now invisible behind the worn brick and concrete which made up the northern wall's construction.

"Keep looking; he'll have to surface sometime to make the shot."

Another tense minute passed…

"This is taking too long. What's Jean _doing?_"

"Most likely waiting for Salles to get back to him."

Nihad's earbug crackled again. _"Squadra Sagittario, Zero Alpha. Be advised there are no friendlies in the area."_

"No friendlies, roger that."

Well, that was nice to know. Shooting another law enforcer would have been embarrassing to say the least; especially since, even though he and Filippo wore GIS patches, they did not exist on the registers of that organisation. Or any organisation a casual observer might be want to investigate.

Some elements of course took that as license to do whatever they wanted, inside the law or out; but it had been drummed into the men of the Squadra della Risposta Tattica that they were not to take any action which may bring unwarranted attention; unless of course it was in a manner which could be quietly smoothed over higher up the food chain.

A category into which "shooting an ally" most certainly did not fit.

"There, far right of the top arches."

Fisbik's voice brought the Somali's focus back in and he adjusted position slightly.

"Zero Alpha, Sagittario. Target is armed. Say again: target is armed. Hard to tell at this distance but it looks like a Dragunov..."

_That would match the rounds found in the Roman Sniper's previous victims._

"...requesting clearance to engage."

There was a pause, then Jean's voice cut across the comm. _"Squadra Sagittario, Zero Alpha. Do not engage. I say again: do not engage. We are routing the nearest fratello to your position now."_

"What do you mean '_do not fucking engage'_ Jean!" Fisbik's voice was a barely stifled hiss. "The barstard's _right there_. We can bag him and claim this one for The Agency!"

"_Sagittario Two! You will maintain comms discipline,"_ it was almost possible to hear the Field Commander's teeth grinding across the circuit. _"I said do not engage the target, leave him for the fratelli to capture. I will _not _repeat myself again! Zero Alpha. _Out._"_

"_Fuck sakes_. We're going to be left playing second fiddle to the_ fucking_ cyborgs again aren't we?"

"Yes," Nihad's eye never left his scope, "but the cyborgs are what the SWA is for. It would be difficult to justify their cost if... lookout!"

The big Somali rolled out of the way just in time as a bullet slammed into the ground exactly where he had been laying, followed an instant later by the crack of a rifle. Then he was up on his feet, snapping off a reply and quickly cycling the AWP's bolt as he and his partner backed into cover.

Another shot zinged past.

"All callsigns, all callsigns. Sagittario has been engaged. I say again..."

* * *

><p>"<em>...Squadra Sagittario has been engaged. Returning fire."<em>

"Triela, hold onto something."

The cyborg just managed to clutch at a door grab in time as the big Mercedes swung suddenly left, thudding and bouncing across the centre traffic island and through a gap in the line of southbound vehicles to fire itself up the approach to Rome's Colosseum.

Stationed to watch the Circus Maximus, she and her handler had been the closest fratello to the action, and it had taken less than a minute to make the journey north over cobbled streets.

Those few people who had braved the cold and danger to see the city's sights were now headed swiftly in the other direction, and Hilshire stayed clear, swinging right past the Arco di Costantino, around the Colosseum's less frequented eastern face and brought his car to a slithering halt on icy cobblestones. Almost before the estate had stopped, Triela was out its door and running around to retrieve her shotgun from the boot.

"I'll go ahead, catch me up."

Then she was gone, leaping the fence as, around the scene, flakes of white snow started to fall.

Safely in dim tunnels under the structure, Triela extracted her trench gun from its carry case. Working the action backward, she inserted a shell into the breech before slamming the pump forward again to lock it closed and ducked off into the gloom.

"Squadra Sagittario, this is Leprotto. I am entering the building from the eastern side. Do you still have eyes on the target?"

In the back of her head, the tiny voice which picked up such details at times like this noted what an incredibly inadequate description 'building' was for the mass of ancient rock and concrete now surrounding her. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, had spilled blood here, their own and that of others. Now, today, one more would be joining them.

_Lets just make sure it's the right one._

"_Negative Leprotto. We lost sight of him, but he was high on the north facade."_

"_Squadra Sagittario,"_ Jean's voice cut across the airwaves, _"if you see the target, try and hold his attention. Leprotto, move in and take him: capture or kill."_

"_Roger that."_ Fisbik's voice was a growl.

"I'm on my way."

Suddenly glad to have successfully fought sleep through Mancini's history lectures, the cyborg found one of the eighty sets of internal stone stairs intended to ferry ancient spectators to the grandstands above. The treads were worn and smoothed by passing ages, and a spiked iron fence had been placed across their front to prevent idiot tourists from attempting the climb and hurting themselves; but they would work just as well for her now as they had then.

Eyeing the narrow gap between sharp points and stone, Triela instead took the lesser evil and, slinging the trench gun over one shoulder, braced both arms against iron and heaved. Slowly, the bars started to give, bending outward until, breathing hard from the exertion, she was able to slip between... just as another rifle report echoed through the ruins.

"_Fuck! Did you see where that came from?"_

"_No, but he has to be moving around to the east."_

"_I can't see him high, he must've gone down a level."_

Staying close to the wall where the structure would be strongest, the SWA's senior cyborg climbed, gun barrel low, butt jammed in against her shoulder.

_If the target was headed east, then he was headed toward her._

The Colosseum was tallest on its northern face, which meant four flights before she would reach open air. Pausing just before the top, she gave her firearm one last check.

"This is Leprotto, I'm at the second level on the eastern side."

Peeking around the corner, she stepped out into the corridor.

It was still dim here behind the grandstands, cold light filtering in through archways not doing much to define details or shadows, instead throwing the scene into a bleak, monotone grey. Moving slowly up the outside wall, Triela opened and closed her gloved hands to try and work the cold out of them. The digits felt stiff and sluggish, cybernetics or...

She wasn't sure what happened next, but the girl was dropping before she had time to consciously register why as a rifle round zipped past her ear, smacking into the arch behind as the sound of running feet receding into the murk.

"Contact! Target is on my level, headed back north, I'm going after him."

Leather soles pounding on hard flooring, she gave chase. Her enemy had to be heading for one of the stairways down; the question was just which one.

Another snap and crack rang out, followed by two more in rapid succession, much closer by, the sound ricocheting off hard surfaces.

"_Leprotto, he's gone up one. Target is on the level above you, still headed around the north side."_

_Up? Why on earth would he go up?_

Nihad's voice cut through her earpiece again. _"Visibility's deteriorating out here, if it gets much worse it will start limiting our ability to help."_

Halfway up the next stair, the girl paused to look out across the arena. Snow was falling heavier now through enveloping cloud, turning the far walls rapidly to grey silhouettes, ghostly apparitions in the thickening murk. That was going to make her life harder without two more sets of eyes, but by the same token it also knocked out some of her enemy's range advantage.

Reaching the top of the stairs she crept forward, now open to dreary clouds and staying low behind walls and columns' stubby remains. Under a closing sky the silence was eerie, amplified by the fleeting violence of earlier exchanges and the pounding of her own heart. Slowly, cautiously, she poked her head up… immediately throwing herself sideways as another shot screamed past and rolling up on one knee to send her booming reply.

From this far out the scattergun had little real effect, but she saw a dark shape duck back behind cover, moving further into the protected arches ahead and she took the opportunity to follow suit, dodging quickly up under their shelter. Heart still racing, Triela pressed herself against brickwork, firearm clutched to her chest. She had to think, her opponent was cornered. He wouldn't be coming back her way; in the tight, enclosed spaces she had the advantage and if he tried to break the other direction it would land him square in Nihad's sights.

_Cornered, like an animal... a dangerous and unpredictable animal._

Shifting her hands' grip slightly, the girl moved to peek around her pillar. Before she got there however two sharp cracks exploded from further up the walkway.

"_Fuck! He's gone over the edge!"_ That was Fisbik's voice.

Spinning where she stood the cyborg rushed to look over the parapet, just in time to see a burst of red explode from the sniper's arm as he tumbled down the angled rooftop below, the shot's report catching up half a second later. The man clutched at the hit, losing hold of his own rifle in doing so and it slid away before both tumbled off the end and onto the next level down with an audible thump and clatter.

Nihad's gun barked again, but to no avail.

"_One hit only, target has gone back inside."_

Dashing down the nearest stair, Triela moved quickly to where the man had landed. His Dragunov still lay on the ground, and a few meters away a splash of blood darkened ancient concrete flooring, turning the snowflakes which fell on it briefly crimson before their short lives melted away.

Kneeling to inspect the patch, the cyborg looked around. Nihad must have hit something important, because the Roman sniper was bleeding profusely... and if he was bleeding that much then...

She spotted it, another red dribble two meters further on. Shouldering her shotgun again, she crept after the trail as it disappeared back into the Colosseum's murky interior.

His rifle gone, it was doubtful her quarry would be heading back for the open, blood patches instead leading down into the structure's bowels and the rabbit warren of rooms and byways which threaded it like some crazed spider web. Down here, gladiators had armed and armoured themselves, said their final prayers and were readied to give the salute of those about to die.

_Was that still a relevant gesture in this day and age?_

Pausing at a turning in the labyrinth, Triela listened. From around the corner came the sound of heavy breathing. Taking a quiet but deep breath, the cyborg stepped past the corner... only to find herself spun around as two rounds slammed into her outside arm, and she harnessed the momentum to duck back into cover.

_Damn! Stupid! Of course he would have had a backup somewhere._

Pain lanced toward her shoulder and, over the rasp of her own laboured breathing, footsteps receded again into the dark. Long pause, short shuffle, long pause, short shuffle: a limp, he must have hit the ground harder than she thought.

The burning sensation in her arm was receding now as combat drugs stepped in, and she pressed the bullet wounds back against freezing stonework to take the rest of the edge off. Inhaling deeply, she stepped out again into the corridor, shotgun up...

...empty; but further up another blood dribble marred the sandy floor. Surely her quarry had to know the game was over, that he'd lost.

She didn't need to wait long to find out.

Three turns later she stopped short again, as the sound of more heavy, ragged breathing came again to her ears, and it wasn't moving.

Mobile or no however, she had no intention of falling into the same trap twice.

Taking two steps back, Triela tensed and made sure she had a good, firm grasp of her shotgun. Then she took one bound and launched herself across the next corridor, rolling to her knees, firearm up and ready.

She needn't have bothered.

In the dimness a human shape was slumped against the wall, one hand clutching at a wound on the other arm, which hung limply by the figure's side, a pistol held loosely in his grasp. Slowly, the cyborg stood, and the sniper's head lolled to one side to look at her. Now she could see the second trickle of blood, darkening the grey of his jacket where Nihad's bullet had gone right through soft arm muscle, penetrating the rib-cage beyond.

A wry chuckle wracked the man's body. "You're one of the government's daemon children aren't you."

It wasn't a question, it was a statement of fact, and the girl kept her weapon trained on him, face impassive.

"Thought as much... in which case, since I've seen you, I'm good as dead anyway."

Suddenly the pistol came up to wedge under his chin, and seeing what was about to happen Triela lunged forward...

_Bang._

* * *

><p>"Sergeant Massimiliano Anasetti, formerly of the <em>9º Reggimento d'Assalto Paracadutisti<em>."

Jean threw the personnel file down, sending it spinning across the Spook Pit's smooth table top, somehow managing to roll contempt, anger and three days worth of frustration into one motion. Cleared of the Blackers' intelligence mess for now, The Pit instead found itself the central hub for working through what could be gleaned of the media dubbed "Roman Sniper".

Bouncing off the carefully tagged designated marksman rifle laying in the white surface's middle, the manila folder came to rest in front of Priscilla, whom picked it up to skim the first page.

"Decorated sniper, tours in Iraq and Afghanistan... what turns a man like this to terrorism?"

"Who knows," growled the Field Commander in reply, "but apparently he came back from overseas and found a new cause worth fighting for."

The last was delivered with a glance at the sole fratello seated in the room.

Before they could take advantage of the right of reply however, Hilshire piped up from opposite Priscilla, "Inspector Berlusconi is talking to Anasetti's family, friends and former comrades at the moment. I have asked him to forward on what he finds, but so far there has been nothing which may explain or indicate any change of heart… though I was thinking I might ask Doctor Bianchi to take a look as well."

"Either way, we're going to need to be extra careful with our deployments for the foreseeable future," continued Jean. "The simple fact is we don't know how many fratelli managed to get their photos taken... and Chief Lorenzo is _not_ happy about having to go cap-in-hand to Section One, asking them to assign assets on tracking that information down and, if it's even possible, destroying it."

"I'm sure Draghi is absolutely _loving_ that."

"He is."

"Could be worse... you could have no idea anyone was snooping _at all_."

The man turned to glare at whom had just spoken... but then his shoulders loosened and he pinched at the bridge of his nose, fingertips rubbing at the corners of tired eyes. "You're right Blacker, it could be _a lot_ worse. As it stands, Priscilla's people are trying to pull any CCTV footage or similar they can of where our fratelli were deployed in the hopes of figuring out who got caught and who didn't. Some of those were out of sight and out of mind... the rest though; we're going to have to go through their reports with a fine tooth comb and figure out which are most at risk."

"Big job."

The intelligence superintendent looked over at the British handler. "It is, there's certainly enough to keep my girls and boys busy for a while, as if we didn't have enough to do already."

"In the meantime," continued Jean, gesturing to what lay on the table, "we need to figure out what to do with all this."

Seated beside her partner, Monty scanned what lay there: Dragunov rifle; a cheap mobile phone of the type which could be bought with cash; wallet, devoid of any ID; half a box of ammunition... reaching forward, she however picked up a bloodied Makarov pistol, zipped securely into its plastic evidence bag. Turning it over in her hands something apparently caught her eye, and a small frown crossed her features. As Hilshire started to talk again, she pulled her computer closer to bash away quickly at the keyboard.

"We did manage to track down Anasetti's vehicle," digging in a pocket, he extracted another Ziploc bag, containing a set of keys. "No joy figuring out where the other keys go yet, but the car ones are for a black, 1992 535i... we're giving it the once over now, but question is: what happens with it afterward?"

Still looking at her computer, Monty shrugged noncommittally. "Give it to Allison? Last I heard she tries to claim everything else with four wheels which lands in this place anyway."

"Cut out the middle man you mean?" put in her partner.

"So to speak... and with a bit of luck it will keep her occupied until we can escape again."

There was a sigh from Jean's direction. "_No_. I'll talk to Ferro: we'll have it serviced, cleaned up and put it in the motor pool. God knows we could use a few more non-descript vehicles around here. Either way, keep chasing Anasetti."

Now they cyborg looked up from her computer, locking eyes with their head analyst. "Priscilla; how are you off for time?"

"Not good. Why?"

"Because I think the Skipper and I should start concentrating back on our own work."

"I _might_ be able to spare you Genco…"

Now however Jethro's head turned to look at his girl. "Oh?"

"You remember that takeoff we did of weapons headed for South America?" Monty held up the bag. "Well this Makarov's serial fits neatly into the code series we identified as _missing_ from that shipment."

There was a pause as her handler digested this.

"Priscilla, Jean, I fear we may be wanting this room back..._"_

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	11. CH11 White Knuckle Ride

**AND THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction, based on works by Yu Aida._

* * *

><p><em>Special thanks to Professor Voodoo for the continued use of Genco Ribisi.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 11|White Knuckle Ride<br>**

Settling restlessly back into the Audi's leathery embrace, Jethro Blacker glanced at his wristwatch as its seconds hand swept back toward the glowing double-marker twelve o'clock position. Against the soft radiance of light pollution above dense bushes separating handler from perimeter road, in the darkened cabin that timepiece offered the only source of illumination; its escapement's soft ticking accompanied by a quiet ping and clink as the Allroad's engine lost its last residual heat to cold night air. Funny how the latter always seemed to work better after the even most minor of services, if all the mechanic did were something as insignificant as swapping a headlight bulb, everything seemed to run just that much smoother. At least, that was the impression he'd formed on the drive from Rome to Athens, and every other time the fratello's estate returned refreshed from Audi's Teutonically efficient servicing department.

_Hopefully that particular theory would sound true for plans as well._

He glanced again at the glow from Limassol's port; even if it were just a mental thing, a simple placebo created of a break from the norm, he'd take whatever advantage he was presented.

If he were to pick a particular worry then chief amongst them would have to be the shore-side approach. While the port's yards were large and cluttered, this was Monty's third time into the complex in as many months, fourth if disembarking the RoRo ferry were to be counted amongst that number, which was enough to put both fratello members on edge.

In hopes of avoiding yet another overland entry the proposal _had_ been briefly tabled to hire a yacht and scuba gear for her to swim in whilst he waited offshore; until both realised that, even in Cyprus, January was far too cold for the casual undertaking of either activity. The only people liable to be attempting such would be locals, whom they couldn't imitate; or the extremely dedicated, whom tended to be in possession their own equipment. Any traveller looking for hire fins and tanks to explore the deep's wonders with would have long headed somewhere further afield and warmer… like Australia.

_Pity, at least on a sailing yacht he would have had a choice of sheets, halyards, wheels and winches to occupy his attention. Just sitting here was cruel and unusual torture._

Checking his mirrors again, the former British agent caught a flash of movement followed by a quiet coded rap against a rear window, and reached over to unlock the doors. A moment later, a dark shape slid silently into the passenger seat. Removing her charcoal flat cap, Monty ran a gloved hand through auburn hair, then looked at her handler with a shake of the head.

"The press isn't there anymore, _long _gone I'd say." She shivered slightly, rubbing one, skivvy covered upper arm with the opposite hand. "Turn the heater up a tad, it's chilly out."

Firing the car's diesel back into life, Jethro reached forward to do as he was told before slipping the auto box into drive and turning back over crunching, stone riddled earth toward the road.

"Well we can't exactly say that wasn't expected…" he let out sigh, more resignation than frustration, "…back to square one I guess."

As the noise of gravel was replaced by humming, smooth tarmac, the handler flicked on his headlights, washing the road ahead in cold white xenon beams, whilst inside the glow of instruments and ambient lighting came alive just enough to make out his partner's scowl as she spoke. "Feels a bit like; too much time spent running after Rome's fool errands…"

"Be nice, they _do_ pay the bills."

"_Some_ of them," now it was the girl's turn to sigh. "Well I saw one of the intelligence flags up just before we left, mayhaps Ribisi will have found something with which to atone."

* * *

><p>Even in the depths of winter, azure Mediterranean waters still sparkled off the Cypriot coastline, conjuring images of seaside holidays on rented patches of sand and laughing children, or yachts and champagne, dependent on one's ilk. Pulling a little tighter closed the resort standard-issue fluffy white bathrobe, Monty turned her attention back to the laptop now resting on the penthouse suite's small outside table. Tapping a key to scroll down another page, she took a bite from an apricot danish resting beside her; arrived ten minutes previous courtesy room service.<p>

The buildings at this easterly end of the city were more modern, the roadways dividing them wider, unashamedly set out to lure pasty northern tourists to the acres of beachside deckchairs and cabanas spread before their sea edge in summer. Now in off season however the resort's pool far below lay all but deserted, and between low numbers and the penthouse's high position, the Four Seasons Limassol made for a decent business-option substitute… even if the room barely managed to live up to the grandiose assertions of its title.

_And of course, remaining down the tourist end of town lessened the chances of any… unwanted encounters._

The staff would of course form their own opinions as to why an adult man and young girl chose to hide out here away from the tourist crowds, though some concealed it better than others. The room service boy had hung around a little longer than required when she answered the door berobed and to a backing track of running shower water. To his credit he'd managed to maintain enough professional dignity to deposit his trolley in front of the obviously unused sofa bed without appearing a gross voyeur, before beating a regretful retreat.

Now, emerging from the master bedroom wrapped in a similar style to his partner, Jethro picked up a plate and started to nose around the trolley himself.

"I assume there's coffee somewhere?"

Cocking an eyebrow, the girl outside motioned to a depressed plunger parked in the middle of the table.

"Why did I even bother asking?"

Picking up a covered full English breakfast in one hand, he filled the other with a copy of the London Financial Times and stepped outside to join her. Setting both down before the seat opposite, the handler quickly tipped a measure of strongly brewed coffee into a small cup, already placed in readiness for him with milk and sugar. After a quick whirl with the teaspoon he sipped at it, before lowering the rim again to catch Monty's eye and offer her an indulgent half smile.

"What're _you_ so happy about?"

"I was just thinking how much more pleasant this is than the SWA refectory. We have a view, fluffy bathrobes…"

"It's certainly more private; and quieter."

"…And you don't need to fight anyone for the paper."

"_Hmm._"

That sounded like the newspaper incident was still something of a sticking point; though one of the elder kitchen staff had corrected the issue later that day. Instead removing the shiny stainless steel lid from his meal rather than pressing the issue, and placing it to one side with a clatter, Jethro lifted his fork. Before he could take the first bite however, he was interrupted from across the table.

"I see we appear to have won a round then."

"Say again?"

Monty quirked him a smile and raised eyebrows before nodding at the newspaper set to one side, awaiting his perusal. Following her gesture to the front page, he scanned the flimsy pink stock until he arrived at a small block of text at the bottom:

"_Lost in Space. Another blow has been dealt to the already troubled _Moratti Technologia Communicazione_ after its much touted Mercury communications satellite failed to make transfer into geosynchronous orbit. With current board chairman and grandson of the original founder, Baldo di Moratti still missing in Switzerland, this latest setback has caused questions to again be raised regarding the company's future direction and triggered a…"_

The handler glanced up to catch the gaze of his girl, his expression now a smirking exaggeration of her own small smile.

That drew a flat look. "You look _entirely _too smug."

"I think a little smugness is allowable under the circumstances," he picked up his coffee cup again and raised it, "to the small victories."

Reading upside down however, his partner was further through into the body of the text. "'Inside source', do you thing that could be the same anonymous snitch who tipped us off about Mercury in the first place?"

Giving an internal sigh, Jethro took a sip of his drink anyway before setting the cup back down. "Who knows, no-one ever found out where that tip originated from so it could be any person, even possibly a government plant…"

Monty cocked an eyebrow.

"…you don't seem sold."

Now the girl sipped at her own coffee, buying time to gather her thoughts. "I just can't help but think this particular press leak would not seem an intelligent move for the government…"

"Governments aren't exactly renowned for making intelligent decisions."

That earned him another quirked smile, conceding the point, but she continued, "Padania connections or no, _Moratti Technologia_ is still a major financial entity and, until recently at least, a stable one. Italy's economy is shaky enough without giving one of the main drivers behind it a good wobble as well, and I can't see a ruling government wanting to do that… fiscal bankruptcy has this manner of losing one the popular vote; not to mention giving the Separatists extra ammunition." She sipped again. "Now, if I were running things at Moratti, a defunct bird isn't the sort of information I'd be wanting to make public before a) I knew that it was completely unsalvageable and b) had figured out how to control the damage…"

"…so leaking to the press would seem less a planned political move," picked up Jethro, "and more like the actions of someone with an axe to grind internally."

Monty nodded. "Either that, or it's in someone's interest to give Italy as a whole a good nudge toward the precipice… and take your pick of potential parties in that group."

"Now _there's_ a fun thought to start the day on."

Lifting his fork again for a second attempt at breakfast, the Englishman turned back to his newspaper, continuing the article he had started. It rolled on from the front to a double page spread, and between it and the accompanying commentary he had just about polished off the plate before hunting the next tidbit of information.

Despite what misconceptions the man on the street might harbour of the espionage game, the simple fact was that a solid chunk of information relied upon came from completely legitimate sources. Sources from which could be built a contextual framework to weigh and judge data acquired via less legal avenues against. Without that context, it was quite difficult to build a picture of how to interpret what was found.

Finally folding the paper away again he gathered the last dregs of breakfast which lay around, carrying them back to the trolley which was then deposited in the hall outside for collection. Flipping out the "Do Not Disturb" sign he returned to the balcony, swinging around behind his girl to place one hand on each of her shoulders, looking off along the Limassol waterfront. The sun was higher now, though still doing little to warm the day, and in the clear air he could see down, past the port, to where the coast veered out into the Mediterranean, sandwiching a spit of British territory between sea and sky. Closer, in the building's other wing, two of the hotels other few guests were also sat outside, and as he watched, one of the heads glanced curiously across.

Leaning over further, he let his hands slide off Monty's shoulders and down her sides, slipping under her arms and around to finally fold across the flat curve of her tummy. Bringing his head to rest where his hands had just been, he used the position to plant a light kiss on his partner's cheek.

"Neighbours are watching."

Taking the cue, she twisted her head to get her own look and receive the next on her lips, letting him reach forward to close the lid of her computer whilst the other arm guided her up and toward open sliding doors, a palm resting lightly on her buttocks.

_Now he had both hands full._

Moving deftly out of the grasp however, his girl turned instead to the open doors and, with a pointed glance at the pair across the hotel grounds, drew sheer curtains to block any view from the bright outdoors.

Now safely out of sight, Jethro handed her computer back. "So, what sort of presents has young Master Ribisi sent?"

"Some surprisingly good ones actually."

The handler raised curious eyebrows at that, but Monty was already settling onto the room's sofa, opening her computer back up on the low coffee table. Pausing for a moment, he moved to join her, leaning in to look at the laptop's small screen.

Scrolling up the page, the girl stopped at where she had placed notes amongst the PDF file text.

"So far I've been through his summary, and was starting on the detail, but what will be most interesting to us is here," she gestured to a table. "These are a series of flights booked by Hermes, each taking place within a consistent, narrow window before Omurtak's manifest noted a shipment to the Anatolian airfield. The flights themselves are to Odessa, and appear to be part of a larger group of regular bookings… probably an inspection tour of some description."

"And I'll wager most of those other visits are entirely legitimate," put in her partner. "He didn't manage to grab the _next _date I suppose?"

The girl shook her head. "Unfortunately not. There's a pretty big gap in flights just after we were in Colombia, and since then Hermes has been booking at short notice: usually less than a week. From that I would guess either the supply into Odessa is sporadic, or more likely it's a tactic to prevent people doing exactly what was about to roll off'f the end of your tongue."

"…and I assume there's nothing to evidence later flights lining up with anything from Omurtak at all…"

Another head shake. "…no, we've nothing to compare against... for all we know the continued visits could be a ruse to draw out whomever did them damage in Anatolia and the Amazon."

The handler nodded, then paused apparently in thought. "We only visited either chasing cargo from the port, and I like to think we did a reasonable job covering our tracks in Anatolia… Odessa's on Anagnos' schedule as well isn't it?"

"It is, which is why Genco flagged it up over Hermes' other destinations to begin with. Difficult to tell if the flights fall within a window from that though, with sea passages being what they are…"

She let the rest of that hang, and Jethro nodded: the unreliable on-time performance of shipping lines; subject to weather, port queues and at the whim of customs officials would have made it far easier to match against Omurtak's air and land routes than those sailing the proverbial ocean waves. That said, it was more difficult to conceal a Panamax carrier than a truck or even an aeroplane, and so that Anagnos was also making consistent, covert, pickups at the port city gave a decent indicator of where to head first.

"…and of course it's a reasonably easy jaunt by land around the Black Sea from Odessa to Turkey," completed the handler.

"Bar the occasional armed conflict."

"You know as well as I that can be as much a help as a hindrance."

Massaging at her upper arm, Monty paused, before bringing the conversation back on track. "Assuming Hermes is operating as a front for Padania interests, it's probably a fair chance that's where the arms shipments are being split. From memory at least some of Odessa's wharves are _porto franco_ as well…"

"…so ship the Italian consignment straight from there to Genoa or some holding point…"

"Probably a holding point, Anagnos' runs to Genoa didn't follow a particularly consistent timeframe after Odessa."

"…and send the South Americans' gear on around the coast; with Hermes on the ground at the handoff to co-ordinate and make sure his tat is going to the correct people." At that, Jethro paused. "Of course they could just be checking on what's being shipped out of Odessa and are splitting the loads somewhere else."

His partner sighed. "Could be, but logistically I think it makes more sense to do the split in Odessa, rather than bringing yet another leg by another hauler into the chain, and from a security standpoint handing over straight onto a ship keeps things closer within Anagnos' and Hermes' own sphere of influence."

Now the handler seemed to pause as another thought crossed his mind. "We weren't looking at Hermes in Rome were we?"

Monty shook her head. "No, we were still sifting through known Padans before upping sticks rather than chasing where we didn't have a name. Genco must have exhausted that and figured he'd fare just as well taking a stab at a company, rather than an individual."

"And did he get an individual out of it?"

"One Itri Demirer, probably false, no photo on record... at least not under that name or in any identification to have passed under Italian eyes," she paused. "The good bit though, is that those flights all originate out of Istanbul."

"So you think our traveller may be..."

"...may be the same chap from Hermes was playing chess against Omurtak? I think it's a distinct possibility." she stopped, one hand moving again to massage her upper arm in thought. "What worries me is that Ribisi may have inadvertently tightened our own schedule."

There was another silence as Jethro slotted that into his mental picture of what lay ahead. Unfortunately, she was right. The problem with digging through things like company records was that it left a trail, to varying degrees, dependent on how skilled the operator was. Coupled with what could only be described as a growing counter-intelligence capability within the Padania organisation, the Roman Sniper operation having even occurred was evidence of that, there was every chance that someone would eventually notice. Of course similar risks were true for any form of data acquisition, particularly electronically, but at least checking names it was easier to dance around the edges and through third parties. Going direct for a suspected front company was much more likely to raise flags.

_Hopefully at least some of Monty's and his own professional paranoia had rubbed off on the man._

"I think," he said finally, "that if we are going to move on Odessa, we want to do so sharpish. After Turkey and Colombia, particularly Colombia, only an idiot wouldn't realise someone was taking an interest, and if they know Anasetti's Makarov came via that same route…"

"…it would not take much to put two and two together and figure hard evidence was floating around out here somewhere," the girl paused. "What do you make of Anasetti anyway; do you think he knew what he was getting into?"

Another silence.

"I… don't know… difficult to answer without having met the man. That said, if he were clued in on the whole operation, he'd have to know he wasn't coming back..."

"…someone may have told him it would eventually time out."

"Would _you _honestly have believed that?"

The girl shook her head. "No… a sacrificial lamb then."

Jethro nodded, and reached over to give her knee a squeeze. "Gut feel says so; if I'd been running him I'd have sent him out fully believing he was going to strike a blow for the separatist movement, a proper one, one with direct impact on the government, and leave the rest out… The trick of course would be getting him to swallow that, which would at least explain leaving the gun's serial number on should someone intend to convince him he would live."

"True; and if you knew he was a sacrifice, you'd do well to keep him well isolated from any parties whom could be compromised, certainly no contact with the more important stake holders."

That was met with a cautious nod. "…and with a bit of luck, as a solider, he'd take the orders and not ask too many questions… you're going somewhere with this."

"Probably more wishful thinking than anything; but if Anasetti _was_ a sacrificial lamb, kept isolated from the rest of the organisation, it may take longer for information on what arms had been lost to filter between cells and up the chain of command," Monty nodded at her computer. "Genco's attached a note saying that Hilshire's still finding very little, which would suggest the sacrificial lamb idea might well be true. If that's the case then I imagine his handlers would have been very careful in how they equipped him, and I doubt the person whom gave over that Makarov knew what it was or was aware of its origins. With a bit of luck it may take a while for that information to reach the desk of someone with a big enough picture _to_ realise the implications of it falling into our hands."

"Or they know exactly what it was and are now in a mad panic to try and shut any potential leaks down."

Monty grimaced. "That too. Either way, you're right: we can't afford to dally here."

"At least with some harder evidence we've enough certainty to start pursuing this line a little more aggressively."

The cyborg shot him a thin smile. From here on, as the path forward became more defined, events would inevitably start moving quicker, and as that happened more chances needed to be taken to stay ahead of the game, opening up more opportunities for mistakes to be made and the whole thing just go up in smoke overnight. It was an arms race of sorts, not of guns but of information and reactions. "On that note, Genco tracked down the travel agency Hermes booked through, it might be worth giving them a call to find out exactly where we need to be looking to pick this chap up…"

"…but first it might also be worth figuring out when we need to be there."

"Odessa's a tourist town."

"Not this time of year it isn't, not enough to loiter", he glanced at his watch. "You said the Hermes bookings lined up against Omurtak's manifest?"

"The fragment we have of it yes."

"Then I think this might be a good moment to go give our Turkish mate another surprise visit."

Now Monty cocked an eyebrow. "As in you don't think he'll see this one coming?"

This time, Jethro's smile was that of the cat with its eye on the cream. "I sincerely hope not… or going, for that matter. Find us passage to Turkey."

* * *

><p>After a six hundred mile trek from Tasucu's ferry port to Istanbul, the short hop from the fratello's hotel, again near fashionable Istiklal Avenue in Beyoğlu to the south-western district of Aviclar, should have seemed an easy run. However, despite trading the frequently snowy roads of Anatolia's high country for affluent suburban streets, Jethro proceeded with more caution than he had since crossing the Cypriot Green Line north to meet their mainland bound boat.<p>

Dressed head to toe in charcoal, Monty sat silently in the passenger seat beside him as their Audi was carried with the tide of evening traffic down a main road. Suddenly she nodded toward something further along the tarmac.

"Well, that's new."

It took her handler a moment to focus in on what she had spotted: parked by the kerbside, standing high above the other cars stood a black Mercedes G-Wagen, its bulk part obscuring the entrance to a buzzing, brightly lit restaurant.

"Somehow I don't think that belongs to a customer. Maybe recent events have Omur feeling jumpy as well."

Slinking past the Turkish supplier's front business the Blackers did not spare the pseudo-military four wheel drive a second glance beyond noting the silver AMG badging on its rump. Not that any attempt to look inside would have penetrated past black privacy glass anyway, but further on Jethro checked his mirrors, getting a decent view through the unobscured windscreen.

"Looks like at least two blokes in there, can't make out anything of the back seat."

"Two's plenty," came the dry reply, "hopefully we won't need to deal with them anyway."

"Touch wood."

Staying with the traffic until the G-Wagen became obscured from view, the handler turned his own estate up a side street, cutting its return toward the restaurant through back laneways. Darkness had well and truly fallen across Istanbul now, any dregs of twilight obscured by heavy cloud and, finding a quiet alley observed only by drawn curtains and sheer walls the fratello rolled slowly down it.

Reaching across the cabin he gave his girl's leg a squeeze as tyres crunched to the briefest of halts and, offering her partner a tight smile in return, she slipped out into the night.

Chill air hit Monty as she left the Audi's warm interior and, not sparing a glance back she moved quickly away before leaping catlike to catch the bottom of a hanging fire escape. Swinging herself lithely onto its metal platform, she paused as the A4's diesel thrum signalled her handler continuing on, car headlights sending ousted shadows fleeing backwards past it to re-join the darkness.

Cushioning her footfalls to silence, the girl swept up metal-grated stairs, emerging onto rooftop gravel below dull skies. Beneath her, roadways, deep in their concrete canyons glowed eerily like some science-fiction network, the brightest marking major traffic corridors fading to black on quiet side streets, the occasional car's progress traced by flashes of light. Taking a moment to orient herself, the cyborg set off at a loping jog, clearing narrow alleys with ease then breaking into a dash to hurl herself across wider gaps, landing in a roll; never stopping, never losing momentum. The trick was to make the exercise appear human.

It was only a short trip to the back lot of Omurtak's restaurant. Not wanting to risk dropping into the illuminated space, Monty skirted the establishment's rear courtyard, landing instead on the rooftop of an adjoining building and settled into the darkened shadow of an air conditioning condenser to wait.

Peering over the crumbling concrete parapet, she took in what lay below. The courtyard was surrounded by buildings on two sides, both sheer brick faces carrying little more than plant and emergency exits. The third and fourth sides were demarcated by the restaurant's rear, and a high wall facing the far laneway, topped by barbed wire and secured with a simple hurricane-wire gate. That was seemingly left open during operating times which, if front window advertising were to be believed, encompassed all hours bar the smallest of the morning.

Internally, hard packed earth was illuminated by a single sodium lamp, its yellowish light picking out two metal skip-bins directly below her, and a collection of shipping containers, stacked up against the rear wall to her left. Across from them couple of upturned milk-crates sat by the restaurant's rear door and, of most interest, a collection of cars parked tightly together, tails in, between there and the gate.

_One of those had to be Omurtak's._

Unfortunately, meeting face to face again had been out of the question as the Turkish supplier would have wanted to know how their fictional forgery caper was coming along, and the fratello were in no position to maintain the ruse. Instead, the plan was simple: from previous encounters, the man was known to carry his list of future shipments about his person, rather than trusting them to a safe. When he emerged from his front business to go home, Monty would… relieve him… of that burden; preferably without being seen. From there she'd rendezvous with Jethro and scarper. It was simple, simple was good, but that did not mean there was room for error; and laying on a rooftop for a couple of hours was not precisely what she would have considered thorough scoping. However, needs must and at least the area was somewhere she and Jethro had spent time before which, despite the risk of alienating an important contact, made this a better short-notice option than plan B: to wait on Hermes itself to make its bookings then chase.

What the cyborg could not see, and not for want of trying, were any security cameras; bar one pointed at the open gate. That made some sense: in Omurtak's business, there were a few things which were best avoided being committed to film, even by accident.

On the rooftop she shivered, following the action with a hidden grimace. Gone was her usual skivvy, replaced by a thermal undershirt and ribbed, heavy wool jumper, but the night chill was still managing to seep through. Wiggling slightly to try and find a less awkward position, Monty settled down for what promised to be a cold and uncomfortable wait.

Hours passed and the temperature dropped, but not enough to prevent at least some activity in the space below. As the hands on the girl's watch crept toward ten at night, the rear door opened, allowing two men in chef uniforms to slip out amidst a wash of voices and laughter from the restaurant floor beyond. Settling down on the milk crates to light up a cigarette each, they were joined five minutes later by two girls in all black, the heavier set of which their watcher recognised as that whom had greeted the Blackers on their first visit. She settled down on another crate, drawing it closer to one of the chefs, her voice wafting across to the watching cyborg. Soon however, her slimmer friend said something, rubbing at her upper arms and turned back inside to the warm.

Monty didn't blame her; wearing only uniform black t-shirt and slacks the stocky remaining waitress had to be freezing, yet somehow seemed unwilling to leave until the two kitchen workers made their way back inside fifteen minutes later.

_Half their luck._

Seemingly no other staffers felt inclined to brave the outside cold, and when 1am came and went the watching girl started to wonder if Omurtak were really present tonight; or if freezing in the dark was going to be all for nought. The area was quiet now, occasional growl of a passing car on the main road mingled with the further off grind of a garbage truck the only sounds to disturb the silence. If her mark didn't put in an appearance shortly she may have to call it a night and come back tomorrow; not least because her clothing was ill suited for slinking around during daylight hours.

_And her nose was cold._

Shuffling in the gravel a little and rolling her shoulders in the hope of working some of the icy stiffness out, her head came higher above the rooftop; just as the restaurant rear door creaked open. Dropping back down she watched as someone emerged backwards through the exit, a leather folio under one arm, evidently talking to another still inside.

Then the figure stepped back, and glimpsing its face Monty slipped silently to her feet. That was as far as she managed however when, about to move toward the edge of the roof she froze again as another person appeared, one of the chefs from before, Omurtak holding the door open as he emerged carrying two garbage bags. That wasn't good, she was too well known to the Turk for anyone to get her description, and certainly did not want to be involving any more people than absolutely necessary.

Helpless to do anything, the young agent was forced to watch as the two went their separate ways, the chef toward the bins and her mark to a small red coupe, wedge shaped and boxy in the style of the 1980s, parked between two other cars. Opening the driver's door he leant inside and to the cyborg's ears came a faint clonk of metal on metal, then the starter motor's whine and sharp bark of an engine firing. With the motor warming, its owner slipped around between the wall and car, propping the boot open to obscure him from view.

From the other side of the courtyard came a crash of metal on metal as the chef dropped the bin's hinged lid again and turned back for the door. It was only a short walk from there to the restaurant but, for Monty, it stretched to an eternity. She had no idea what Omurtak was doing, but she could make a fair wager she was running out of time.

Finally, with grinding slowness, the chef waved one final goodnight to his boss, before slipping inside and was gone.

_Now was her chance._

Wasting no time, the SWA agent was up and running. She was going to need to change her approach a bit from planned and, instead of going straight for the cars where she would be in her target's peripheral vision, ran left. Hitting the rooftop edge the girl flew out into thin air, landing in a silent roll on the double stacked containers, which dropped her silently off their edge into the canyon between. Racing to their end she paused for the briefest of moments to check her target was still occupied and, using the metal corrugations as impromptu starting blocks, shot out across the open space to hunker down beside the car closest the restaurant door, putting it between her and his line of sight.

Just in time too as, creeping toward the vehicle's tail end, she heard Omurtak's boot slam closed.

She was in a bad position, completely exposed to the rear exit, but this was going to be all about timing and she wouldn't need to remain for long. From her quarry's direction sounded the click of a car door latch releasing and Monty exploded from her hiding place, hurling herself toward the restaurant wall. The seconds needed to make the turn on foot would be too many and she instead leapt up, legs compressing against solid brickwork before throwing her the opposite direction to come crashing down upon her target's head.

The added force of the cyborg's landing meant her first hit felled the Turk, bringing him to his knees before a quick follow-up jab, with a fleshy thud, put him out for good.

Leaning down quickly to check the man's pulse, Monty glanced at the car mirrors, both beside her and on the open drivers' door. No, from this angle he wouldn't have been able to see a thing, and with a bit of luck, anyone inspecting the injuries later would mistake her for someone a whole lot taller.

The heartbeat under her fingers was strong, even, and content Omurtak was still alive, the girl left him laying between parked vehicles. There was no point in checking the area again, she would be exposed from now on and if anyone saw her there was not a whole lot to be done about it. Reaching instead into the car's door to yank its boot release with a click, the young agent moved quickly to the back and lifted its hatch revealing...

...nothing. Not a thing. The space inside was impeccably clean, obviously cared for and devoid of the usual rubbish which was strewn through most vehicles of the great unwashed.

_Well, there had to be something in here._

Reaching inside, Monty found purchase with slender fingers and lifted the carpeted floor panel.

_Bollocks._

From where the spare wheel should have been, the round door of a custom-fitted safe stared back at her, its twin tumbler locks inset so as to lay flush with the steelwork. Like that it could not be very deep, perhaps just enough for a thin folio…

The girl glanced around again. Twin locks made life difficult, but certainly not impossible, and she was no safe cracking slouch. However here was neither the time nor place to try. Quickly coming to a decision she pulled out her phone.

"Skipper, it's me. Had a slight hang up in sealing the deal and could use your expertise to resolve it. Take your time; it's a pleasant enough night for a walk… I'll have someone look out for you at the gate."

Waiting briefly for a quick acknowledgement she hung up. Jethro was only a short distance away, but it would still take a few minutes to cover on foot, and she couldn't very well stand out here in the open.

_May as well clear up a little._

Dropping the floor panel and shutting the boot as quietly as she could, the young agent scooted back around the still idling car to her fallen target. Closing the driver's door out of the way, she hoisted him onto her shoulder, staggering a little as the load unbalanced her: he was heavy, a good seventeen stone at least if she were any judge. One of the Gen 1s could have done this easily, and even a Gen 2 shouldn't have really had a trouble; she however had been optimised for endurance, and part of the trade-off was a further loss of strength compared to her sisters. Though she remained more powerful than any human, the limp, awkward body over her shoulder was going to slow things down.

Popping her head up to take one last look around, Monty was out and running across open ground as best she could into the darkness between containers.

Depositing Omurtak unceremoniously on the pavement she opened his coat and quickly frisked the unconscious form. No firearm, but she took his wallet and watch for good measure before buttoning him back up. Fortunately the man was rugged up warm; with a bit of luck he would awake with little more than a cold and screaming headache, maybe a mild case of hypothermia.

Creeping back to the end of the containers she stopped to wait and listen. The garbage truck was closer now, but above it she thought she could just hear the tap of...

At the end of the yard, Jethro scrambled up the high wall, out of the watching camera's sight and, picking his way over loosely coiled barbed wire on the stone construction's top, dropped into the yard. Seeing him, a wave of relief swept over Monty and she stood to motion him toward the car.

Jogging over he met her at its bonnet. "A Biturbo? Pull the other one..."

"Omurtak came out with a friend. There's a safe in the boot and his folio is locked inside. The kitchen staff use out here as a break area…"

"...and if he was about to leave, Omur's mooks are probably starting to wonder where he's disappeared off to," finished Jethro.

Without a further word, the handler headed for the driver's door, Monty dropping into the passenger seat as he got settled behind the wheel.

"Guess we'd best find somewhere a bit quieter to finish up."

Pumping the clutch a few times to get a feel for it, the ex-SIS man found first and edged his Maserati coupe forward, swinging it around toward the entrance. Nosing out the gate, he looked right…

...and directly into the eyes of a suited figure rounding the corner from the main street.

There was only one sort of person that could be at this hour and, for the briefest moment the man paused, wrapping his head around what his eyes were seeing. In that instant, Jethro checked left just as the garbage truck's amber flashing light illuminated the alley way, blocking off his best exit.

_Bollocks._

Not even bothering to try for his gun, the guard was gone, running back toward his companions in the waiting G-Wagen. Left no other option, Jethro wrenched his wheel right, slamming the throttle pedal into the carpet as he did so. The Maserati surged out into the alley, then the turbos spooled up and the Blackers exited out onto the main street sideways, accelerating away under a banshee turbine wail and raucous yowl of busy Italian metal. Half a second later, from behind them came an angered roar as the AMG Mercedes leapt off in pursuit.

Germany's AMG tuning house was not renowned for the subtlety of its products, and even from within their wrung out coupe its challenge reached the fratello's ears loud and clear. Glancing in his mirrors, Jethro caught sight of the four wheel drive's bluff front gaining rapidly. There was no way he was going to be able to outrun it on a straightway, and his stolen Maserati was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a _good_ car. However engine aside, the G-Wagen was still essentially the same truck chassis, military vehicle it had first rolled off the production line as over thirty years ago, and that had to count for something.

_Back alleys it was then._

Standing on the brakes the handler felt his wheels lock and backed off just enough to regain traction, swinging across the tarmac to get pointed at the closest opening and blasting away up the narrow gap between residents' cars. Seconds later their pursuers followed, running wide to bounce off the row of vehicles parked against a wall, and piercing the air with wailing alarms.

"They'll have the rozzers on us if they keep that up."

Taking advantage of the short straightway, Monty reached around to the small of her back to draw her PPK. Not taking his hands from the wheel, Jethro spared the half second he needed to glance at her.

"Don't go wasting that."

"Didn't intend..."

She was interrupted by the snap and crack of passing rounds, kicking grout and brick off blurred walls and shattering the mirror of a parked car in sparkling shards.

Twisting in her seat, the girl looked back to see one of their pursuers hanging out his window, gun in hand. "You were saying?"

Not answering, her handler threw their car down another street and out of the line of fire. He couldn't keep this up for long, and even here the straights ran far enough for the AMG to remain in shouting distance. What he needed was a plan, a way to change the game; and urban maze was not offering him the means by which to do it.

More gunfire and behind him glass shattered as one of the pursuers' slugs crashed through the rear window to lodge itself in the dash, letting in the roar of rushing air. Twisting around, his partner loosed a shot in return where it splashed harmlessly against the Merc's windscreen.

_Bulletproof._

"You won't be doing any good with that!"

Monty turned a scowl on her handler.

"…So put it away and find a route to the port!"

Another volley whizzed past the Maserati and Jethro hauled the wheel around to send it skidding into the next street. Feeling the wheels hook up again, his partner returned her gun to its holster, before extracting her iPhone to boot Google Maps.

"And keep us off the straight ways!"

Monty glanced at her screen. "I'll try, but we'll have to use the highway at some point! Right up here and north!"

Haring through the next bend, the spy glanced in his mirrors again. That last sharp turn had given him another couple of car lengths on their pursuers, and if the highway really were unavoidable then he would want to claw all the lead he could in amongst the houses.

"Three hundred meters, then hard left into a hard right and left through the circle!"

Joining the two next turns into one continuous curve, Jethro buried the accelerator again, firing his car up toward a statue adorned roundabout. The roads here were wider, buildings lower, away from Aviclar's dense southern construction, and behind the fleeing fratello the Mercedes' driver took full advantage, sending his big vehicle thundering out of the same turns and across the road's full width, all four tyres squealing in protest.

"After the roundabout, there's a double-apex right then hard left!"

Dodging around a slower moving lorry the handler dropped a gear and suddenly felt the steering go light as the tyres' note cut from humming asphalt to rough rumble of flagstones, traction evaporating on their slick surface.

_Like this he wasn't going to..._

Dodging back toward his previous lane Jethro lifted and felt the back swing round to send the car sliding sideways down the road, washing off speed, then poured on the power as the blast of horns and glare of high-beams filled the air. Finding the car which had just overtaken him suddenly broadside on, the unfortunate truck driver behind stood on the brakes with a squeal of tyres as all 18 wheels locked and his following trailer started to slew slowly, inexorably sideways, overtaking the cab as its bulk closed the road behind. The handler glanced around as forty tons of out of control metal bore down on them, filling his window while, out his girl's side, it was mirrored in the jagged shapes of modernist art, plonked squarely in the road's centre.

_Come on, hook up._

Finally the tyres bit, and the Biturbo scrabbled forward again, through the roundabout the wrong direction, inside tyres clipping the kerb to pitch it briefly onto two wheels and skidded through to be bounced back on course by the opposite gutter. Under control again, the agent could take half a second to check back, just in time to see the pursuing AMG come squirting out from between jack-knifing trailer and stone wall, its driver forced to stand on the brakes as well to shuffle clumsily around the outside of the roundabout, before once again deploying every single horsepower available to rocket off after his quarry.

The lead was good however, and dodging through backstreets Jethro was able to maintain it until, shooting through a T-intersection, the road opened out again with the east-west highway onramp looming ahead.

"West to the interchange then south to the port!"

The handler drove his foot all the way to the floor. Ten seconds later, the Mercedes appeared onto the same tarmac, its driver following suit to close the gap.

In this race of straight line speed, and with over double the power the Maserati left the factory with, everything went the G-Wagen's way. By the time they hit the onramp their pursuer was barely a car length behind the fleeing fratello, and as wide highway asphalt opened out the German 4x4 was all over its Italian opponent.

Keeping the throttle pinned Jethro did his best, roaring after the edge of flashing high beams, horn blaring to try and clear a path. He'd have a chance to open the gap again at the interchange, but until then...

Monty's window shattered as gunfire scythed through it and her handler swerved over to put another car briefly between her and their attackers. The respite wasn't long however and as they cleared the impromptu barrier's bonnet his whole car lurched sideways as the much larger Mercedes crashed into it, shunting the Blackers toward blurred barriers.

With no other options Jethro did the only thing he could, swerving toward the highway edge to release the enemy's hold on his vehicle and stepped on the brakes, sending the Maserati shooting out from between steel and concrete like a bar of soap under an unfortunate foot. All resistance to its sideways charge suddenly removed, the AMG thudded against the wall, grinding along in a shower of sparks and allowing the fratello to scoot around its outside, back to the exit lane and up the ramp. The handler only just had time to register an advisory speed sign flash past, and realise he was moving far too quickly before the interchange's sweeping curve had them, and there was nothing for it but to keep his foot in and pray.

It almost worked.

Engine screaming the Biturbo bounced against the outside barrier, tearing the driver's mirror off and launching it out across southbound motorway traffic, headed for Istanbul's major port.

The port itself of course never slept and the crush of vehicles was heavier here, massive lorries loaded down with steel containers rumbling along in each other's wake, and Jethro sent his car dodging between them as his pursuers flew off the onramp to disappear between lumbering behemoths.

In the melee neither handler nor cyborg could make out their opponents' engine note above thundering diesels and, sweeping past another semi trailer, suddenly found themselves directly alongside Omurtak's minions.

Leaving his girl to navigate, Jethro drew his own pistol, reaching across her to loose two shots through the G-Wagen's open window before its occupants had the chance to do the same. He didn't know if he hit anything, but the big Mercedes swerved away behind another truck.

"Next exit!"

The former rally driver gave a curt nod to acknowledge his partner's advice as in front, the tail end of another car blocked their way. Urging his vehicle on, he swerved through the narrow gap between its rear and the prow of the prime mover one lane over, earning another ear shattering holler from its horn.

Then the Mercedes was there, trailing dust from the shoulder and slamming up against Monty's door, forcing the Blackers back across the front of the motorist they had just gone around. Glancing up the road however, this time Jethro pushed back, holding the other car on its own side of the line as the speeding vehicles roared together down the two lane highway.

He didn't have the weight to resist indefinitely, but he didn't need forever, just until the road ran out to butt up against another looming container transporter, forcing the AMG to brake hard. Released again, the Maserati shot ahead down the side of the truck as more fire peppered it from behind.

"Off, _now_!"

Heeding his girl's warning, Jethro reached the other end of the semi-rig and swung across it, down the off ramp, his opponent forced loose more ground braking again to go around the back of the lorry.

"Follow this for half a click then hard left to right into a long right sweeper!"

Ducking again into blessed backstreets, the Blackers jinxed their way south through the urban mess, pursuers always close behind, until apartment blocks and shops started to thin, giving way to bare dirt and undeveloped lots. Directly ahead, down another stretch of straight road however, shone the glowing lights of the Port of Istanbul.

"Straight ahead for seven hundred then hard right onto the proper side of the road!"

_This was it, final stretch: no twists, no turns, no traffic and no-more cards to play until he got there._

The thought wasn't lost on their pursuers either whom, now on a straight again rapidly closed the gap, flashing high beams right up against the Maserati's rear bumper. What he couldn't afford to let them do was get in front, and Jethro jinxed left and right, trying to keep ahead whilst more shots pummelled the boot lid.

It couldn't last.

His opponents opened fire again, forcing the handler to swerve away off his line. The gap was only open a second, but that was all Omurtak's thugs required. Suddenly the AMG was along side, the muzzle of a SIG pistol pointed out the rear passenger window in the hand of a burly Turk.

However it was close to the end now, close enough to no longer need a map and this time Monty was ready, PPK in hand, to send another two rounds in return, catching the man in a shoulder and sending him flailing back across the rear seat. Instinctively the driver swerved away, but only briefly before hurtling back across the asphalt to smash into the Blackers' Biturbo, sending it bouncing sideways. Squashed between traffic islands, all Jethro could do was counter steer, pushing back as the G-Wagen's armoured flank filled their windows, denying any shot at its occupants.

More gunfire sounded from above with the sickly smack of sheet metal puncturing and tears opened up in the roof lining above the fratello. The turn along the port's northern boundary was visible now, if they could just...

The AMG braked, desperately trying to haul its almost three ton, live axle bulk back to speeds controllable in a corner and the Maserati shot ahead, rounding the turn and running wide past the island into the oncoming lane.

"Four hundred then left through the gate onto dirt!"

Fortunately the roads here were all but deserted, and no headlights appeared ahead to shine bright accusation, allowing Jethro to deploy every single remaining horsepower on hand to eke out as much of a lead as possible before swinging hard left onto unsealed roads.

The port's rear entrance was intended for little more than construction traffic: open hurricane wire gates with a flimsy temporary security hut beside a wooden boom arm... neither of which stood a chance. The solitary guard inside didn't know what was coming until Jethro's Biturbo smashed through the arm, sending wood splinters flying... which would have been fine had the Merc's driver been ready for the surface transition. Unfortunately, he wasn't, and coming off asphalt the big 4x4 skidded, slid wide and straight through the flimsy structure: demolishing it together with the poor soul inside as it thundered into the port complex.

The G-Wagen's four wheel drive should have proven a boon on the gravel surface, but traction control would never let it fully perform and, despite a lack of formal training, Jethro had cut his car-control teeth on the forestry trails of Great Britain. Spearing along at the head of a massive dust cloud, the handler was able to hold the gap open as they raced south toward wharves and their monolithic piles of containers.

"Straight ahead and it will loop left toward the main laydown!"

"Too close to operations!"

"You're telling _me!_"

The handler glanced out his window, across open ground and past fuel-oil tanks to where more of the strong steel boxes were stacked thickly in the port's back lots.

"Hang onto something! We'll take a shortcut!"

Seeing what was happening, Monty managed to snatch the passenger grab handle just in time as her partner threw their car into a long slide, arcing gracefully off the road and onto undeveloped ground between themselves and the far hardstand.

Undeveloped was the key word and there was a sickening crunch as the Maserati's air dam shattered itself against the dirt, before the car was leaping skyward again to land awkwardly with another thud. With the impact Monty's handhold parted company with the roof, forcing her to clutch at a doorsill.

"It's not the Allroad you realise!"

Jethro however was busy keeping his sports coupe pointed the correct direction across an environment it had never been intended to encounter. This though was exactly what the G-Wagen had been originally designed for and it thundered off in pursuit, all four wheels putting power down as long-travel suspension soaked up the punishment. Before long it was again just yards from the Blackers as their Biturbo shot between fuel-farm tanks and slid sideways up onto a low road embankment, lifting off its suspension before tyres found tarmac again and its driver wrestled it back under some semblance of control.

The AMG had no hope of pulling the same manoeuvre and speared straight on, across the alignment, all four wheels in the air and keeping enough altitude to bounce across the drainage ditch beyond. With a squeal of tyres it disappeared amongst darkened rows of containers as the driver desperately tried to arrest its flight.

A few hundred metres further north, passing by the rear wall of a neglected looking warehouse on the laydown boundary, Jethro swung over a drainage culvert and into the same area, killing the Maserati's lights as it slunk itself into the steel maze.

"We can't let them live you realise. Not if they'll go scurrying back to Omurtak with a report."

The handler glanced toward where his partner had spoken. "I know, but I have an idea around that…"

In the low light, he could just make out the cocked eyebrow.

"…something along the lines of 'return to sender, address unknown'. Let me find somewhere to park up for two minutes and I'll give you the rest; and hope they don't leave without us."

* * *

><p>Sitting in the deep canyon gloom of steel containers, whether by echo or the mind, the night's noises came clear and amplified, each one filled with meaning. From far to the south floated sounds of dock work underway, but closer, much, much closer, the rumble of a V8 prowling between rows; hunting for those whom had humiliated it so recently, angry and frustrated by its wounded but still elusive prey.<p>

Fortunately for once the overpowered 4x4's engine was working against it, masking the Maserati's own quietly idling six.

In her seat, Monty pointed toward the eastern fenceline. "If we're going to open a container, I'd suggest one on the end of a row, or with a decent run to it…"

Her partner nodded. "That was the thinking."

"…you just need to keep those chaps busy for a bit."

"Four minutes do you?"

"I get the impression it's going to have to."

Reaching over, the handler gave his girl's leg a squeeze and quirked a small half-smile. "Four minutes it is."

Returning the gesture, Monty lifted his hand away, before starting her watch's chronograph. As the big, red chrono-seconds hand swept off from its twelve o'clock resting place, for the second time that evening she slipped away into the night.

Hearing revs rise behind her, the girl waited in shadow as her partner edged their battered vehicle out of its hiding space to idle off down the rows. In the container stacks' echoing depths it was difficult to judge position by sound, and to be sure of remaining unseen she would need to wait until it was certain Jethro could draw their pursuers away.

_She just wished he would hurry up about it. Getting a container open was likely going to mean picking more than one lock and, though doable, four minutes did not leave great margin for error._

A minute passed.

_Three minutes._

Suddenly, two shots rang out then a flare of revs, followed by a louder, more guttural roar.

Taking her cue, Monty sprinted for the laydown's eastern edge, lock picks already in hand.

Two rows south, Jethro dropped his SIG on the passenger seat as the big, black Mercedes pivoted toward him like an enraged tyrannosaur.

_Well, that got their attention, time for step two: run._

Drilling the throttle, the handler swung his car around in a cloud of tyre smoke, giving his pursuers just enough time to emerge from the smog before scarpering down another row of containers west. Monty was in the northeast, and to pull this off he needed her handiwork to come as of much of a surprise as possible.

That complicated matters by not leaving a lot of space to work with, maybe another two hundred yards south without risk of being spotted from the docks and the same north before the hardstand ran out. Sound of course for the remainder of the port's denizens he could do nothing about.

The steel wall beside him disappeared, giving way to the looming warehouse blocking his path.

_And of course the pad was only so far across as well._

Yanking on the handbrake, Jethro spun the Maserati in its own length, pointing it back the direction it had come and working the throttle to keep the turbos on song. Another shot smacked into the seat his partner had occupied until bare moments previous and he dumped the clutch, aiming the car's battered prow for the next row of containers south as the AMG flew out of their previous run, heeling like a gale blown square rigger as its driver fought to follow.

_He couldn't let them fall too far behind, couldn't give them time to think._

More rounds screamed past, sparking off previously red bodywork, as the next line of metal boxes ran out. To his right the laydown opened out, the containers further apart and arranged perpendicular to those he had been already amongst. Throwing his car again into a long slide the handler headed toward them… while the tight confines had been working to the more wieldy Maserati's advantage, keeping his attackers close needed to take higher priority.

Glancing in his mirror, Jethro saw his pursuers emerge, sliding sideways out to the hardstand extremity and, beyond them, a straight run down the fence line to where he had left Monty.

Tyres scrabbling for traction on the dusty concrete, the AMG started to close again, thunderous roar of its engine filling the night.

_It was going to be a long four minutes._

* * *

><p>The third padlock sprung open in Monty's grasp and she dropped it beside its brethren. Of course the container she needed open could not have been one with a nice, single, protective lock box. Oh no, Murphy had seen to that: it had to be one of the old designs, with a separate lock for each bar. They weren't exactly sophisticated bits of equipment, but with less than a minute for each, she was pushing. Unfortunately they couldn't afford more time, else their quarry may start to wonder why it was being lead around in circles.<p>

Inserting a flat piece of steel into the last lock, she twisted slightly then inserted her second, hooked tool, feeling for the tumbler pins and pressing back against gritty resistance. Ocean air and spray had not done the mechanisms any favours, and corrosion was making it just that more difficult to find their shear point.

The container she worked at sat proud of the next row down, a bare few meters from the western boundary fence and from behind the sound of more gunshots reached her ears through the scream of wrung out engines, starting to grow louder.

In her hand she felt the infinitesimal click of the last pin dislocating against the torque of her wrist and she twisted harder, feeling the salt riddled tumbler grind sideways. Wasting no time the girl yanked its housing away and glanced at her watch.

_Twenty seconds._

Pushing up the two outside door locking bars she swung the metal panel open as far as it would go. As she turned to the second door, headlights appeared to the south, followed a moment later by another, higher set pair backed by V8 thunder, barrelling towards her. Jethro cut to the outside to block their path, but Omurtak's driver dodged inside, using the four wheel drive's mass to shunt his opponent toward the fence.

The next locking bar came free in Monty's hands and she grabbed at the final one and lifted…

…nothing, jammed.

With no time left, the cyborg stood back and gave it a hefty kick, grunting as her toes connected with steel from behind thin canvas shoes. With a crack of breaking rust however the bar jumped free and she wrenched the door open, hurling herself out the way in the same movement.

Too late the Mercedes driver realised what was happening as Jethro pushed back harder, funnelling him toward the forty foot container's gaping maw before swerving clear.

Swerving clear, but not clear enough, and the Maserati's sliding rear connected with the container's solid steel edge, sending it spinning away past the row's end and down the fence line as, from inside the open container came the sound of shattering glass and crash of steel meeting steel at speeds it could not expect to survive. The box however was packed in amongst its compatriots and the blow barely shifted the dust off them, sending glowing motes floating down from a darkened sky.

Fighting down the overpowering urge to immediately run to her partner, Monty picked herself up, brushing some dust off and drew her gun. Keeping the firearm up she swept off its safety and cautiously entered the container; there were other threats to her handler's safety which needed dealing with first.

It was dark inside and reeked of petrol, but enough glow from the port's tall lighting towers entered for her to make out the crumpled form of Omurtak's Mercedes squashed up against the far end. Carefully she safed the PPK again and slipped it back in its holster: one shot in this atmosphere wouldn't just kill any survivors, but likely her as well.

Edging up to the mangled wreck, the girl peered inside. The front half of the car was almost unrecognisable, bonnet crumbled over a bent chassis and panels split apart at the welds. Reaching through what had been a window however she pushed a slowly deflating airbag aside and located one of the bodies, placing her fingers against its neck.

_No pulse._

Quickly and methodically she worked through the three other limp forms, all departed from the mortal world; not particularly unexpected, but it always paid to make sure. Exiting the container again, she sealed its doors, just as her handler's stolen Maserati limped slowly back around the corner and rolled to a halt with a grinding hum.

Leaving what she was doing, the girl turned to his window, features pulled into a careful mask, one eyebrow raised. "You didn't break anything did you?"

"Not on me, only the car: rear bodywork's been pushed right onto the tyre, and I've likely bent the suspension _quite_ badly," he gave her a wry smile, "somehow I doubt it's going much farther. You?"

Monty shook her head in reply, "We should make scarce though, lest your little escapade has piqued anyone's interest."

"Thoughts?"

The girl looked around, then gestured to the warehouse they had passed on the way in. "That doesn't look particularly inhabited."

"Go check it out, I daren't leave this thing alone lest it stops running all together."

Monty didn't waste time, leaving her partner behind and instead scampered to the far western end of their manmade canyon. Pausing in the darkness, she surveyed the building before which Jethro had made his handbrake turn earlier to avoid crashing through.

On closer inspection, while the building itself was one monolithic block, differing company names were set above tall, widely spaced roller doors, suggesting it to be broken up internally to separate partitions: cheap space suited to small operators. Accordingly, the frontages toward the port's rear appeared like they had not seen proper maintenance in years, the end one sporting a faded "for lease" sign in its window.

_So, some were indeed empty… she probably had the GFC to thank for that._

Above the vehicle entrance of each a bulky, aged CCTV camera was positioned, angled slightly to cover both roller shutter and the smaller personnel entrance with its adjoining office window, leaving regular blind spots against the bare, tilt-up panels.

The end section was probably her best bet and, checking the area was still uninhabited, the girl sprinted across the intervening space to put herself in one unobserved gap between it and its neighbour. She couldn't get far over enough to peep in the second company's window without being observed, but there were fresh tyre tracks leading under its roller door and a faint whiff of stale smoke from cigarette butts discarded under the office window. Chances were it was occupied and, looking up further, she could just catch the red sparkle of an LED on the coldly observing camera above.

Turning the opposite direction she failed to find the same glow on the abandoned warehouse's own electronic watcher. Of course it could always just be malfunctioning, but from here she did not have a way to get up level, or even check it if she could.

Giving a mental grimace, she pulled down her cap a little further and, careful to keep her face obscured from the camera's sight, trotted over to the end partition's door to set about it with her lock picks.

It did not take long to beat the cheap setup and, checking for any potential alarm triggers first, the young agent slipped inside. Closing the door again Monty found herself in a small entry way, bare reception desk to her right under the "For Lease" sign, and two deserted, glass fronted offices further on leading to another door, presumably out into the storage area floor. Checking it also for alarms, she moved through to the warehouse proper.

It was dark in here, faint exit and emergency lighting doing little to penetrate the empty blackness. Another sweep of the space revealed no more cameras, but also a rear door and, probably thanks to fire regulations, a connection to the adjoining partition. Looking further up she could see that the internal walls did not in fact reach all the way to the roof, a couple of feet between concrete tops and metal joists filled instead with light reo mesh preventing one from moving between cells.

Following the steel around to the warehouse front, her eye found where camera cables penetrated the building facade, tracing their ribbed conduit until it terminated just above head height, power plug hanging limply beside its socket.

_Well, that answered that question._

Aside from a heavy duty lead for the door's electric motor, the wall appeared otherwise bare of cables and Monty moved quickly to its manual lift, shifting a heavy fire extinguisher from her path. Releasing the steel roller's ground-level locks, the cyborg hauled down on the chain, raising the metal inch-by-inch clear of the ground.

Jethro must have been watching for, as the door reached head height his wounded Maserati limped under its edge, swinging around 180 degrees to face back out, and his partner quickly dropped the shutter behind. Killing its engine to prevent asphyxiating himself and his girl, the former SIS man yanked the boot release and stepped out.

"How does it look?"

Monty joined him at the car's rear whilst he pried open bent metal. "This one's definitely abandoned, next door possibly not. I was going to check it next to see if there was a computer terminal."

Her handler nodded. "With a bit of luck by the time you're in, I'll be able to give you something to work with."

Leaving him to set about Omurtak's safe, the cyborg moved quickly to the connection between warehouse partitions. This time the access _was_ alarmed and, with the lock picked, she produced a small knife, sliding it into the crack between panel and frame to hold the plastic trigger tongue fast and opened the door. Using her other thumb to restrain the alarm sensor she removed the knife, turning its blade around to wedge it in the mechanism, jamming the circuit closed. Of course she would have to leave the knife there, but right now she didn't have much choice.

A far cry from the abandoned area's ringing emptiness, this partition was stacked high with pallet racking running along its entire length, a high-reach forklift parked against the back wall. Not wasting time to check what was stored there, Monty made for the office. Whatever the company dealt with it could not have been exceptionally high value as the door from work floor to reception lacked an alarm, or even a fastened lock. Inside she ducked to the first glassed-in work desk, finding a computer quietly humming to itself on the cheap MDF bench with a dirty white iPhone charger and cable snaking around it from a wall power point.

_Sometimes it really was worth fitting in with the great unwashed._

Snapping a shot of how everything was arranged, a twitch of the mouse brought the lock screen blinking to life across the monitor. Extracting her phone from a pocket the girl opened up its hacking suite, before removing the Apple cable from its wall transformer, instead connecting it between the computer and her own mobile and setting the device to work.

The hacking software did not require long, barely time to take in the room which she now occupied: a couple of motivational posters, stack of papers, shelf of folders and a neatly arranged line of what appeared to be some form of Japanese robots; all horns and mono-eyes.

The standard windows desktop appeared.

Leaving her phone plugged in Monty quickly found a desktop shortcut to the port's database, sorting through filters to get a window of container movements for a fortnight forward and back, then glanced at her watch. Its little hand was just leaving the 2am marker… barely an hour had passed since she knocked Omurtak unconscious.

Abandoning the computer momentarily, she moved back to the fireproof divider door, checking her knife remained in place, and on to where her handler worked. At least at 2am it was unlikely anyone would be reporting for duty here; admittedly not the same as absolute certainty, but her phone had to remain connected to hold that terminal open and avoid running another hack.

Pulling up silently beside her partner, she watched as he carefully turned the car-safe's second dial until it issued a tiny, barely audible click. To someone without her own sensitive hearing it probably would have been imperceptible; Jethro was operating entirely on feel.

Sensing his girl's presence, the man glanced toward her and, offering a quick half smile in greeting, pulled down on the safe's release lever with a clunk of steel bolts withdrawing. Lifting the safe lid, he reached inside to extract Omurtak's leather folio and handed it over. Undoing the clasps, Monty opened it to eye the thin sheaf of paper retained along the spine, scanning its columns.

"Dates look about right; this is it."

"Nice to know we didn't run for nothing." Now the handler looked at his watch, and grimaced. "If we want to make the hotel by sun-up though, we'd best get a rattle on."

The girl pinched at her jumper. "This isn't exactly morning wear is it?"

"Not unless you're going to a bohemian bar, no."

Shutting the boot, Jethro headed for the Maserati's driver's door, whilst his partner retrieved the dry chemical extinguisher still positioned near the truck entrance and threw it in the passenger seat, then stood by the lift chain.

Taking his seat her handler checked the car was in neutral, gave the throttle a few pumps, depressed the clutch and twisted the key, filling the warehouse with the whine of a starter motor…

Twisting the key back, he tried again.

Nothing.

Standing by the door as it whined for a third time, Monty glanced at her watch, and as silence once more overtook the space she trotted back the car and leant in through her partner's window.

"What's wrong?"

"Murphy's _bloody_ law, that's what's wrong. It's not even _attempting_ to fire."

"Try it again."

Leaning forward a fourth time, her handler twisted the key. This time the whine was weaker, but then the engine coughed once, twice, a third time… before with an almighty and distinctly terminal bang it stopped all together.

Silence.

Still by the window, Monty held her partner's eye. "Well, we can't leave it here."

"I think you may have to push."

"I think I might."

"Pull the bodywork off that tyre first, I'll get the door."

Stepping away to allow her handler passage, she raced around the car's back to where bent rear suspension and crumpled bodywork had brought steel and rubber together. Already the tread was worn down to the canvas, and she didn't much feel like trying to move the thing with a flat. Getting a grip on distorted metal with gloved hands, the cyborg heaved, bracing against the wheel itself, sharp edges biting through soft leather to her fingers. She only needed half an inch and slowly, painfully the ruined coachwork came clear as, behind her the door rattled slightly open.

Letting her partner take the driver's position again, shooting a nod to say the coast was clear, Monty braced against the car's boot and pushed, hard. At first the Biturbo resisted, then started to move, slowly, gathering speed with each step until finally she was jogging after it across concrete and up the container row. Taking it close to the opposite wall, Jethro swung the car in as they reached the unit holding Omurtak's smashed Mercedes, resting its prow a few feet from the doors and leapt out to swing open one side. Breathing heavily, his girl joined him to get the other panel open, before extracting the extinguisher from the passenger seat and helping him to roll the broken Maserati inside.

The handler again looked at his watch; they'd lost time in that, too much time, and it was going to be a substantial hike back to get the Audi.

"I might have to leave you to clean up."

Monty cocked an eyebrow. "Say again?"

The answer was phrased as a question, "How long do you think it will take to clean up here?"

Looking around, the girl surveyed what remained to be done. "Probably a good five or ten minutes to do it properly, another twenty inside at least once I've time to sort Omur's manifest against the port database…"

She stopped, realising what her partner was getting at. "We're not making it back to the car in time are we?"

Jethro shook his head. "Together, not with any certainty, and it'll be far easier to get out of here individually anyway. I think I'd be best leaving now and try to pick you up somewhere outside."

The cyborg looked unhappy, head fighting heart as every conditioned cell screamed not to leave her handler. She pushed those feelings wilfully out of the way; logic and common sense said this would be safest for both of them.

"Get going…" she forced a tight smile, "…but you had better not leave me standing at the altar."

Reaching out on instinct, Jethro moved to give her a quick hug, but his girl had already disappeared into the container again, fire extinguisher in hand. Lowering his arm again, the spy assessed his options: he had four rounds left in his pistol, not that he would be particularly wanting to use it on the way out. From where he stood he could see high, barbed wire topped, hurricane fencing stretching north and the back entrance road had passed more on the port's landward extremity… and unlike his partner he lacked the cybernetic prowess to deal with that neatly.

From what Monty had said on the way in however, the main vehicle access route had to be somewhere to the south and, even at this time of night, the brightly lit wharf gantry cranes still plied back and forward.

_Perhaps he could hitch a lift._

Decision made, he started to jog south.

The steady progress didn't last long, and soon degenerated to a series of stops and quick sprints as the spy moved from shadow to shadow, trusting his charcoal suit to help keep him concealed. Cyborg or no, Jethro Blacker was still a fully active field agent; expected to run and jump along in the wake of his charge. To that end, the SWA had decided it would be fitting to hold him to the same standards as his previous legal employer: the British Secret Intelligence Service, more commonly known thanks to a certain double-0 agent as MI6. That meant a gruelling series of physical tests every six months... or as close to as his and his partner's sporadic residency on campus allowed. Considering that other handlers had been allowed to hobble around with a cane, part of him felt that quite unfair.

It did serve its purpose however, and the former British agent arrived at the edge of the port's haul road in good time. The road itself was thankfully well back from the wharves proper and, crouched on its darkened edge between two containers, he watched as trucks rolled slowly back and forward along the tarmac, braking almost to a halt at the roundabout before him. Not all were suitable to his needs however and so he waited, until finally a bluff-fronted Mack rumbled toward the cranes, its backbone-trailer quite empty.

_Now he just needed it to return._

If it was going to, he hoped it would do so soon. With the intent of remaining harder to see in shadow, the spy had left his warm camel driving coat in the Audi, and the cold was biting through his fine wool suit as if it was not even there. Fortunately Istanbul's port was a busy one, with a fast turnaround and shortly the Mack growled back. As it thundered down its gearbox to approach the roundabout, Jethro seized his chance and, sprinting across the short space from the containers to it, leapt up between its load and cab, squeezing in behind the latter's aerodynamic fairing.

There wasn't much to hold onto back here, and the handler did his best as the truckie juddered forward, climbing slowly through ratios for the short run to the main gate. As it slowed again, the hidden spy held his breath and pressed back further into cover.

Between the sound of the idling engine and exhaust rushing up the massive stainless steel tower by his ear, any human chatter between driver and gate guard was lost. Finally however the massive truck started to roll forward again. Through his narrow window on the world between bodywork and steel container, Jethro watched as security hut, then window and, after what seemed an eternity, the gate crawled past.

Clear of obstacles the truck started to gather more speed, accelerating up onto the access road and, concealed in darkness, the Englishman allowed himself a small sigh of relief; he was out.

Now to find his car, and pick up a girl.

* * *

><p>Stepping into the petrol-smelling container, Monty put down her heavy fire extinguisher and started to search the Maserati as Jethro's footsteps receded into the night. Picking up casings from her and her handlers' guns as she did so, she counted off in her head how many shots had been fired.<p>

_Seven._

Spent brass in hand, she crushed each with the base of the extinguisher until it was bent beyond all recognition. It was a calculated move, its intent obvious to any half competent investigator. However, if she could not enjoy the anonymity of wafting ghost-like in and out of country, then she intended to make herself as nigh on impossible to follow as she could, and end the trail right here.

Scattering the bent metal through both car wrecks she wiped the Maserati for prints, before hefting the fire extinguisher and pulling is pin. A long burst filled Omurtak's Mercedes with white powder, before another dealt with the ruined Biturbo, followed by more short, directed blasts over the steering wheel and driver's position, door handles and sills, boot interior, safe and any other point of potential contact. Stepping out of the container, the girl then emptied the rest of her extinguisher's contents over the two vehicles and closed the steel doors, leaving the spent cylinder entombed with them. Give it an hour or so, and the mildly caustic fire retardant would wipe away any fingerprints she had missed.

From the north the sound of sirens wafted to the girl's sensitive ears; hopefully Jethro was far away from that… hopefully they weren't coming for _her_.

Either way, the demolished guard hut could not have gone unnoticed for long, even if the man there had failed to get off a warning before the speeding Mercedes bulldozed it, so it was probably a reasonable wager to whomsoever that siren belonged was headed for the port. From there it would not take much to figure out where the culprits had disappeared to.

_No time to waste then._

Locking up Monty wiped the outside of the container as well and, taking a moment to read something on its side, returned at a silent dash to the warehouse, Omurtak's folio in hand. Shutting the roller door behind herself, she was quickly back at the office computer, her iPhone having held it logged in.

Opening the folio beside her, the girl started checking its information against that she had filtered on screen from the port's, mercifully presented in international-standard English, database. Fortunately, probably in the interests of his own sanity, the Turkish supplier only encrypted contents and receivers for his wares. Dates, weights and drop points however remained in clear and it did not take long for her to isolate out which shipments would be passing across Istanbul's busy wharves.

There were only a few and, information in hand, she started the laborious task of sifting through the mainframe data. It was slow work, not something to be done on a time limit, but she only needed one match. Picking the first consignment from Omurtak's list, the girl filtered by shipment weight and its date.

Nothing.

_Bollocks... of course… Omurtak would be recording contraband, whereas the port would only be interested in the gross weight of the whole shipment._

Running through her list of candidates again, she chose one with some heft behind it, hopefully enough to warrant its own container. That narrowed the field somewhat, but after a good fifteen minutes of searching she still came up cold.

That was it; out of time. Short of checking shipment contents herself there was no other means by which to single out what on the database was going to Omurtak, and what belonged to some innocent party.

_Plan B._

Removing her filters, Monty instead found the search function and typed in the ID code from that container in which she had left the Maserati, AMG and four dead thugs.

There was only one match, and she wiped it from the system.

_So much for 'return to sender'._

Frankly either option had been unpalatable, even if who had so morbidly created that cargo remained anonymous. At least this way it should be weeks before anyone found the evidence, and if it were found, the authorities were more likely to give up on the cold trail than a riled Omurtak would have been; and at least if the evidence did eventually find its way back to the supplier he should have a reasonable idea of whom to pay off. This was after all his city, and if he did not he would not have survived so long at his chosen game.

_This was why she generally preferred not to leave dead bodies behind herself: they just caused trouble._

Closing down the database, the girl set her iPhone's hacking suite to make its exit and looked around: time to leave, and be certain she locked up on the way out.

Finger prints should not have been a problem for her, and rearranging the desk back to what he had been with gloved hands, she left the computer as it was: clearing it of the owner's prints would only be suspicious. Finished, she made her way back to the warehouse's empty partition, carefully removing her knife and closing the door without tripping the alarm as she did so.

While she herself would be fingerprint free her handler was a different story, and the girl carefully wiped down any surface he may have touched, including the door lift chain, before moving quietly back through the reception to listen at the external door. From outside came the faint sound of an engine, getting closer, and she hunkered down as powerful lights idled past, shining through the window to send dark shadows running across the room, dancing between red and blue flashes.

_Police then, using blues and twos in lieu of the standard light vehicle amber strobe._

The engine and lights receded, but Monty paused a moment to let them get properly clear and take stock. Her partner would not have been able to get over the perimeter fence and had headed south, so she would be best going north. If Google maps were still accurate, vegetation stretched from the hardstand to the main road which she could use as cover. As long as the dog-squad did not get here too quickly, she should be alright.

Listening again, the young agent pushed open the door a crack.

_Clear._

Sliding out she made sure the exit was securely closed and locked behind her, then scampered to the building's end and paused. The area ahead was riddled with containers, placed more haphazardly than those in the laydown's south. That was fine by her though and she darted forward into the almost organically grown maze of steel. The containers here were old, rusted through in places, almost certainly destined for the scrapheap or sale to third parties and mostly left open to weather. In an effort to cover her tracks, any emitting a particularly pungent odour the girl would dart inside, sometimes exiting the way she had come or through a rusty hole in a wall or ceiling, skipping across metal roofs if the opportunity presented. It might not do her any good in the long run, but the thought was there and it could buy time.

Nearing the edge of the concrete, Monty once again found herself above ground level and, taking a run-up leapt, flying through the air and over the hardstand's end to land in damp bushes. The north end of the port laydown was indeed wooded, a low lying swale intended to catch runoff from the paved areas and trap any pollutants it may carry. Suffice to say, the smell was not good. Moving as quietly as she could, the girl headed north, picking through freezing undergrowth.

Reaching the port's perimeter fence she stopped again, watching. On her left, to the west had been placed a small group of demountable buildings and, further along the road, more flashing lights were clustered around the destroyed guard house. To the right lay the warmer street-lamp glow of suburbia. Neither were particularly good options but, with the police on the prowl inside the port as well, she could hardly risk returning there.

She glanced at her watch: almost half three now. Edging east, she made for the houses; at least all but the night owls and early risers would be in bed. Finding a point particularly devoid of light the girl checked once more for security cameras, then down toward the cluster of emergency vehicles. Amongst the red and blue flashes she could just make out vague figures, going about their business. With a bit of luck, and without the benefit of backlighting to silhouette her, she would be even more difficult to discern from where they stood.

Drawing a deep breath Monty rose, taking two steps and leapt over the barbed wire topped perimeter, landing softly on the other side and dropped into the shallow roadside drainage ditch. It certainly was not the best cover ever, but she was not planning on staying long. Further up the road was the turn where she and her handler had gained ground toward the port earlier that night, with time to take stock now revealed to be an intersection and roundabout. If she could get near that, she may be able to hitch a ride out of here. The question was how long transport would take to arrive.

Breaking from cover, she sprinted up the road, sticking close to the vegetated traffic island, and crouched down amongst its bushes to wait.

As it turned out, she didn't need to do so for long. From the west came the growl of a large diesel engine, towing a boxy shape in its wake. Seemingly one emergency vehicle which had not been required was a fire truck, and as it slowed for the roundabout, Monty dashed out from cover, keeping low under the line of sight of its mirrors and leapt up onto the back, climbing to its roof and laying amongst ladders and hose pipes. Two nice things about fire trucks: they tended to be stationed close to things which may ignite, often urban environments where the young spy felt most able to lose herself; and they were washed regularly.

Staying as still as she could, the girl took a moment to look up at the stars above: at least for now she was not at much risk of being seen by someone looking out their window; though maybe it would be best to get off before they hit the really built up areas. This certainly had not been her fratello's cleanest job ever.

Now a small smile crossed her lips in the darkness; at least they had a pretty good place to hole up and put some time between now and their exit from Turkey, her hand clasped a little tighter at the leather folio beside her, and plenty to keep occupied with in the meantime. Hopefully this little escapade would pay off.

All that however was for the future. What she needed to concentrate on now though was finding somewhere take her leave of the truck, preferably before anyone had the chance to glance upon the passing fire engine from above. Then she could put some space between herself and wherever _that _was, before meeting her handler: well away from any potentially prying eyes; organic or electric.

* * *

><p>The Ansen Suites, Beyoğlu, Istanbul had been set up with corporate travellers on extended stays in mind. As such its accommodations came with everything the worldly businessman could desire: secure undercover parking, free wifi, room service, easy access to fashionable Istiklal Avenue with its shops and restaurants and big, comfortable beds with room for one more… accompanied by a discreet staff whom would neither gossip nor frown upon some additional company of an evening.<p>

And for once Jethro felt he could spare the time to relax and enjoy it.

Opening his eyes, the man looked around the pair's pseudo-modernist penthouse under sunlight streaming through full height, full length balcony windows. Set just below roof level the suite was bright and airy, with bone walls and light wood floors, its main room being shared by their bed and a lounge area beside the double-glazing, with a small writing desk and dining table in dark chocolate veneer at the far end. To his right, behind curved and slitted dividers was the entrance, a galley kitchenette and, closest to the bed, a bathroom, sporting just gossamer curtains to close its space rather than a door.

From outside the music of city life wafted up from street level many stories below, just penetrating the window glass, adding a muffled backdrop soundscape to the silence inside the apartment. Only the ticking of his watch on the bedside table broke that, and steady breaths from the reassuring weight laid out beside him.

Reaching over, the spy picked up his timepiece, running a thumb across its deep brown, Riva leather strap, feeling the horizontal tracking of its design, then up over the cold angular steel case and around the sharply cut bezel, before eyes focused on the similarly brown hued and neatly detailed face protected behind sapphire crystal.

_Almost ten in the morning._

Replacing the Linde Werdelin, Jethro slid his other hand across smooth cotton bed sheets until it slipped into the valley created by another body. Reaching the slumbering form of his partner, he touched lightly against the small of her back, almost as if to reassure himself that she was still real. Monty was on her side, faced away and he ran his fingers along the indent she left before hesitating briefly, and drawing away. It had taken some convincing to prevent her from diving directly into Omurtak's manifest when they arrived back, the first tendrils of dawn just touching the sky. Only raising the point that they'd need to lay low anyway had convinced her to come to bed instead, and he had no intention of waking her if he did not need to.

Arriving at a decision, the former British agent slipped silently from beneath warm covers, checking his blued P230 still resided by the bed, and headed for the bathroom. He could put up with whatever level of berating not waking her immediately would bring later… and as long as she did not wake _too_ soon he could probably deflect much of that as well.

Half an hour later, showered and shaved the man stuck his head out of the bathroom, peering through the partition's slots. His girl was still asleep, breathing softly and, instead of finding a towel he crept naked around to the narrow built in wardrobe beside their bed. His suit hung at one end, away from the fresh clothes and probably in need of dry-cleaning… again. Instead he selected an ironed button up shirt and set of beige chinos which hung beside a light blue, front-zipped A-line dress. Over the top he pulled a heavy, shawl collared grey cardigan before finding socks, but left the pair of waxed-leather desert boots where they were to help muffle his footsteps.

_Monty still hadn't stirred._

Taking two quick, silent steps Jethro gave himself a little extra push to go sliding across polished flooring to the hotel phone, ringing down to reception to quietly order room service. Another slide had him back again and skating around the partition end to the apartment's small kitchenette, where the fully grown man skidded to a halt. On its granite bench stood the fratello's chocolate-brown boxed camping kit, leather covering's gold monogramming so worn as to be barely visible. From it he extracted the stovetop percolator and sealed tin of ground coffee.

_Time to wake his girl up._

Pouring water into the little contraption's boiler until it lapped just below the pressure valve, he then dropped in its basket which was subsequently filled with coffee, lightly tamping the grindings, before screwing the top down and placing it on the stove. Turning the ceramic hotplate to half-heat the handler settled back on his side of the bed into wait, resting against the headboard, iPad in hand.

Soon the smell of freshly brewed beans was wafting through the apartment, and beside him his partner finally stirred, mumbling something before rolling over to face him, eyes open.

"Morning sunshine."

From where she lay, his pretty girl offered a small smile. "Morning… what's the time?"

Jethro checked his watch. "Almost eleven."

That got a reaction and Monty was up on one arm, eyebrow cocked. "Almost _eleven_? Why didn't you wake me earlier?"

With that she started to slide toward the edge of the covers above where Omurtak's folio had been stashed under the bed, but was stopped by a hand on her shoulder. "Slow down luv, take your time. We have to lay low for a few days anyway, so for once there's no rush."

"Says _you_."

Her partner sighed. "I've ordered breakfast, at least go have a shower first."

"I smell coffee as well."

"Thought that might get you up."

Now she fixed him with a sultry glare. _"Lucky."_

Folding the sheet and duvet back she rolled up to sit on the bed's edge, sliding one hand down the side of the mattress to check on her PPK, before slinking off toward the bathroom. From his position on the covers, Jethro watched her go until she disappeared from sight and his ears caught the curtain sliding closed followed by the hiss of running water… well that had gone alright.

It was fifteen minutes before the bathroom divider was pushed back again and Monty re-emerged wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe, its front left parted to the waist. Just in the hall the recently arrived room service runner stumbled over his words, eyes suddenly no-longer focused on the man before him. Sliding up beside her partner, the girl offered a heavy lidded smile as he received the breakfast trolley with one hand, draping the other arm over her shoulder to clasp the robe slightly more closed across small breasts with his own wry grin. Turning red the teenager outside beat a hasty retreat as the spy drew the trolley inside. Monty, still in his grasp, closed the door behind them before slipping herself free and kneeling down to check the trolley for bugs.

Content it was clear, she left her handler to make his own sweep, instead moving to retrieve a beige turtleneck skivvy and charcoal leggings from her suitcase and disappear back into the bathroom to get dressed.

Watching her go as he finished his own confirmation they were not to be eavesdropped on, Jethro looked around the room, before setting breakfast out on the inside table where they could talk work. Outside would have been too cold anyway, and frankly had he tried to slow her down any more, Monty was likely to wind up more on edge than he felt like dealing with.

He was just laying a cup before each setting as his partner re-emerged, rounding the partition to retrieve her blue dress from its hanger and slide on white GoGo boots. Standing, she walked around the bed to draw Omurtak's folio from underneath it.

Internally, Jethro gave a sigh: so much for a pleasant morning off, he'd hoped to at least make the second coffee before that put in an appearance.

"Aren't you going to need Genco's report before you go sifting through that?"

Monty shook her head. "Shouldn't do, Omurtak didn't code the destination column... you'll need to crack his cipher to double check against receivers of course, but for a first rough pass this should be fine."

_Ah well, everyone had to give a little now and then… some just more than others._

Sitting down opposite her partner, the girl took a sip of her coffee, then unfastened the folio to scan down its pages. Only covering the span of a few weeks there were not many. Forehead creasing slightly, she read back the other way whilst, across the table, Jethro watched her work as the small frown melded into a wry grimace.

After the fourth pass she looked up. "Would you like the good news or the bad news?"

"Pick one."

"The good news is that there _is_ an airfield shipment on here in line with the ones Genco singled out, and if they're still forging ahead it may mean the continuing flights were not all trap..."

"And the bad news?"

"...timeframe. The airfield handoff is a week and a day out, but if you allow three days to get from Odessa to Anatolia by road and another three or so days as margin and for us to work in Odessa itself..."

"That doesn't make for a whole lot of laying low here does it?"

"Not really, no," the girl paused. "How long will it take to drive from here to Odessa?"

Now it was her handler's turn to think. "Two days comfortably, one if we pushed it."

"So one then."

"One," now Jethro took his own sip of coffee, before looking thoughtfully at his plate, "though we may be able to buy another day in Istanbul if we can lay some groundwork early."

Now his partner held his gaze across the table, one eyebrow cocked.

"If we can figure out where Hermes is staying from here, it might save us a day of trying to find him in the Ukraine... Ribisi included the travel agent they had been booking through correct?"

She nodded.

Now Jethro started to perk up. "Give me the details and I might go for a walk after breakfast, find a public phone and put a call in... claim to be chasing up a friend's recommendation or something."

Monty however looked dubious. "We can't be sure whoever's out there will be staying in the same place, and even if it is our favourite forwarders' rep, we may still need time to track him down... besides; aren't we supposed to be _laying low_?"

"I do seem to recall putting the call in to be a suggestion of _yours_."

The look he got in return was innocent. "Oh was it?"

"From memory."

"Though I imagine at the time we had not just caused a ruckus which half the city's police turned out to crawl all over… or put ourselves at risk of blowing a particularly important contact in the process."

Her handler paused to weigh her words; she had a point. On the other hand however...

"True, on both counts… But right now we're going to need anything likely to garner us an advantage once we land in Odessa, so I still think it's worth a shot." Putting down his fork, the man stood up, walking around the table to place a hand on each of his girl's shoulders, massaging the artificial muscle between her shoulder blades. Then he sighed. "As to laying low... it's a risk, but I would more prefer to call off a public phone than my mobile at this juncture, and if I go alone anyone looking for the pair from the other night should be less likely to put two and two together."

"And if Omurtak sees you in town? What if _he_ puts two and two together?"

"Admittedly he's probably a bit miffed right now." He stopped massaging, instead bending down with one arm rested across the back of his partner's chair to support his weight. "However we're purposely in a part of town he and his tend not to frequent, and I promise I won't stray far."

"_Hmm."_

Standing up again, Jethro reached across the table to lift his coffee and flashed his girl a half grin. "Besides, I need to be back in time to have a stab at Omurtak's cipher."

Polishing off the beverage, he set about breakfast again and, half an hour on, stepped from under the Suites' awning into Istanbul's low, early afternoon sun. Wrapped again in his warm camel coat with scarf and tweed cap, the ex-SIS agent scanned the street from behind dark Ray Ban Wayfarer sunglasses, almost unconsciously noting the faces around before turning southwest; downhill, away from Istiklal Avenue with its expensive shop fronts and ever watchful cameras. When he had told Monty he did not intend to go far, he had meant it and, ducking through another back alleyway to help single out any potential tail, quickly found that endangered species he sought in the age of mobile technology: a bank of payphones.

Unfortunately these particular units did not accept cash, instead requiring a pre-paid card.

_Bollocks._

He was just about to turn away in search of a Plan B when someone in the uniform of a city garbage collector walked up to the bank and, inserting their card, started to talk. Seeing his opportunity, Jethro waited until the Istanbulie had finished his call and flagged him down. Making sure his use of the local language remained broken, the Englishman managed to explain that his mobile had packed it in, that he needed to make a call urgently, and would be willing to pay for whatever value remained on the man's card.

Fortunately the city worker did not require much convincing, and very shortly exchanged his card for a set of notes from Jethro's wallet, who watched the man go, happily counting his spoils.

_Frankly, he had probably just been massively overcharged... but just right now he could live with that._

Picking up a receiver in one gloved hand, the spy dialled the number his partner had provided and positioned himself such that he could keep an eye on the surrounding area. Presently no-one was in sight, and as a female corporate travel agent picked up on the other end, he ran his voice down an octave, automatically falling into a thick Russian accent.

"Ah, _Zdravstvujtye_... da, I have a friend, he recommend me somewhere to stay in Odessa, but forgot the name... da, he said you might know as the booking made through you..."

Five minutes later with a deep belly laugh the Britisher hung up the telephone again, and a slow smile spread across his face.

Job done: now they had somewhere to go.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	12. CH12 Cherry Lips

**AND THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction, based on works by Yu Aida._

* * *

><p><em>Special thanks to Professor Voodoo for the continued use of Genco Ribisi.<em>

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><p><strong>Chapter 12|Cherry Lips<strong>

Stifling another yawn, Jethro squeezed shut tired eyes, momentarily relieving the accumulated grittiness of eighteen hours travel. It was a brief respite at best however, and giving a little shake he set both hands back on the steering wheel to guide the Audi's insulated bubble over rough, damaged tarmac, out of the darkness and back toward civilisation. Ahead, beyond cold headlight beams, a white tower stood high above the road, guarding lines of illumination which cut across the horizon either side of it, where frozen fields found themselves enveloped by the sodium yellow glow of industrial progress.

"Almost on the home stretch now luv."

Knocking the dark grey estate out of cruise the handler glanced at his partner, awake since their crossing from Moldova to the Ukraine, her slender outline just picked up by ambient interior lights, staring out the passenger window. That border station had been dealt with further north than a direct route from Turkey strictly required, but far from human habitation the extra travel time had seemed a good trade off, clouding the journey's point of origin. Part of him was starting to rue that decision.

_Well, at least one of them had been switched on enough to fill out the papers._

The girl in question had slept since Dobrich, over ten hours ago, leaving him to the task of ushering their business class conveyance through the rest of Bulgaria, Romania and Moldova, hauled northward under the steam of its idling diesel, dashboard warning of sub-zero exterior temperatures an unblinking companion. There were faster, sharper cars to be had, even just amongst the SWA handlers; but at times like this, in the freezing darkness and running on little more than caffeine and adrenalin, he was glad to have no part in them.

Easing off the throttle as they coasted through an abandoned checkpoint, Jethro swung his car out onto a large roundabout, feeling all-terrain, all-season Pirelli Scorpions skitter briefly over uneven and frost cracked asphalt.

Beside him, Monty's head turned to follow the skeletal, Soviet relic police tower in the circle's centre. "We _did_ fit Turkish plates, not Russian..."

Passing a second highway which joined onto this crossways, the handler indicated off before answering: no point in giving bored traffic officers extra opportunity to shake down a pair of wayward foreigners.

"Certain of it."

Seemingly content the girl returned to looking from her window as outside bright, industrial laydown yards gave way to scraggly trees and graffiti daubed fencing, damaged faces hiding the outer suburbs of Odesa; the Ukraine's famous Black Sea port city. Gradually trees thinned, laying bare crumbling concrete of cheap, Soviet era construction on either side of the wide road.

Turning back from the dismal scene she instead glanced toward her partner. "You know where we're going?"

"The Palladium, about a click south of the wharves."

Monty frowned. "That's a bit inland for someone visiting on the waterfront."

From his seat her partner reached across to pat a thigh. "I'm sure there's some form of method in their madness, luv. Reservations?"

"Dealt with."

"Good, because when we get there I intend to lay down in bed and die."

In the covering darkness, that drew a concerned look, however...

"I'll keep a watch for Demirer by myself then." There was a pause as the girl mentally changed tack. "What worries me though, if he's really the same chap as we saw in Istanbul, is there's a chance he may recognise _us_ as well."

In the drivers' seat, Jethro blinked again as his sleep-deprived brain caught up with the conversation's new turn. "It's always possible, though I doubt he could have snagged more than a passing glimpse."

"That's enough though, any ideas?"

The handler again mentally scraped his thoughts into some semblance of order. "Not yet, but I'm working on it... this would probably be a lot easier if we just rigged up in fancy dress à la Ricci."

"I'll pass if it's all the same to you, I have no urge to play Petra's roles," Monty's voice was deadpan as a newer, better lit building passed by on the roadside. "Besides, we would need a bigger car."

"It was just a thought, and disguises are more trouble than they're worth anyway... let me try this after some sleep."

"Well don't go sleeping _too_ late."

More warm lights burned across the horizon, but now they were joined by another glow as the first tendrils of a wintery pre-dawn began to creep their way across the sky. Below the sun's reaching arms, the Audi found itself borne along with an incoming tide of morning traffic: ancient, belching goods lorries down to zippy scooters swirling and eddying around it.

In his seat, the handler sighed. "Even if Hermes does arrive today, I doubt he will be making any moves before nightfall. I'm sure I can leave things in your capable hands."

* * *

><p>Turning another page of her paperback, Monty reached forward to drain the last dregs from her cup and resisted pulling a face; Ukrainian coffee was a nasty shock after Turkey. Beverage finished with however she relaxed back a little further into her booth's white leatherette seating, lining up doorways until she was allowed a slender view through the Palladium hotel's lift hall to its reception desk. It wasn't a perfect arrangement by any measure, and much of the entrance remained obscured, but neither lobby, nor the wide cobbled street outside with its frozen parkland presented an opportunity to loiter; so this nook of the café lounge was it.<p>

In the corner of her eye one of the gold-shirted waitresses made their way down the long room from the bar at its far end. Light of an overcast day barely reached through full height glass along the opposite wall to where the girl walked, turning the space cold despite sumptuous decoration.

Crockery clacked as the empty cup and saucer were retrieved. "Can I get you anything else?"

"Just a glass of water for now if you could."

"You don't want something to eat? You've been here all day."

Pausing in her reading, Monty looked up at her addressor: short, barely five foot with wavy hair cut close over a wide, almost cherubic face, the uniform blouse below it unbuttoned low.

"My... uncle... is still sleeping off last night, it's easier to wait for him down here."

"Do you want me to ring and see if he is awake?"

"Am I causing a problem?" The young agent's tone was edged in ice. "He will be down when he wants me."

_Conversation over._

"Umm, of course... sparkling or still?"

"Sparkling."

Watching the server beat a hasty retreat, Monty shifted her gaze outside. Despite only really being a backstreet the tarmac was wide and luxuriously open, perhaps a result of Catherine the Great's hand in the city's founding. Now some of that space was used for angle parking, but it remained overlooked by large, albeit bare for the winter, shade trees. Unlike so much of Europe, Odesa had come through the war almost unscathed, and the Soviets had seen little need to rebuild. As an upshot, behind rough-barked branches, well maintained 19th Century apartments stood juxtaposed against Palladium's sleek facade, standing watchful over the same grounds they had for more than two hundred years previous.

Closer, below the gold coated window beside which she sat, the Blackers' dark grey Audi was parked tail in, a red flip-up bracket standing at its nose as deterrent to some would-be thief. That wasn't an arrangement either fratello member had been particularly enthused about, but materials sensitive or otherwise potentially troublesome had been cleared from the car to make it slightly more palatable. Usefully the positioning _did_ give fast access out the hotel's rear entrance, and hopefully the lounge's 24hour opening times would encourage prospective vandals to investigate elsewhere.

The extra foot traffic and security generated by Palladium's attached nightclub wouldn't hurt either... and that establishment's presence probably went some way to explaining why Hermes chose to put their man Demirer up here.

Wordlessly the waitress returned with an iced glass and green bottle of sparkling water, flicking the cap off before her customer to show it had remained sealed before filling the glass and withdrawing. Taking a sip, Monty returned to her novel, keeping the reception in peripheral view.

Few people came and went: one or two patrons, a delivery man, but none of immediate interest and as afternoon started to fade toward muted twilight, she found herself run-out of story. The final paged turned, and in its words two rabbits hopped away between blooming primroses, before the text tailed off into yellowed, brittle paper.

Staring at the blank next sheet for a second, the girl closed her book with a slap, and placed it on the table; that would be one more to add to the growing library in her handler's campus room.

_Speaking of; where was he?_

A glance at her watch told her it was five to five; he must have really needed the rest. Looking around the lounge she was just about to summon the waitress when another figure appeared in the lift hall, and the young spy's lips pressed together in a thin smile; part pleasure, part exasperation as it approached.

"Sleep well?"

Sliding in beside his partner, Jethro ran a charcoal-suited arm around her shoulders, pulling her in. "Like a log. Any sign of Hermes?"

"Not yet, though I _am_ starting to get a mite peckish."

"Thought that might be the case." With that he beckoned the server, and as she approached Monty watched for some reaction to the new scene presented. "Could we get some menus?"

"Sure, any drinks?"

The handler glanced at his girl, who shrugged. "Not right now, but bring the wine list."

Outside, parking spaces around the Audi were starting to fill as those headed to Palladium's night club arrived; expensive cars disgorging expensive people. In stark contrast to its destitute outer suburbs, Odesa's well-maintained old city was taking on a party vibe. Tourist town as well as industrial centre, it served as a playground, and the overflow of young, rich and idle from Arkadia beach on the eastern seafront spilled back into the urban blocks, circulating in marques from Germany, Italy and England.

By the time the waitress brought their meals, and a bottle of good Bordeaux, there was little parking left bar hotel reserved spaces and, as the server poured wine the last open spot was filled by a black BMW X6, lumbering up beside the suddenly diminutive Allroad.

Glass in hand, Monty watched as from the big, black SUV alighted another Armani-shirted boy and lissom girl, wrapped in tight, metallic fabric.

"Looks like Petra or Kara's sort of crowd."

Now across from her, Jethro sipped at his glass before twisting slightly to follow his cyborg's line of sight. "Look on the upside, amongst this lot _no-one_ is going to give our car a second glance."

"That's one way of viewing it." Now she rested her fork and leaned in, lifting eyebrows slightly, a small smile twitching her lips. "So did you have a chance to think anymore on how to approach our man?"

On the other side of the table, her handler mirrored the intimate gesture. "Think? Yes. Solutions though... not as yet. I still reckon that if he did see us in Turkey it would only have been a fleeting glimpse; he was away in the crowd before we closed on Omur."

"Glimpse or no, if he can link us it could lead to trouble, particularly should he go enquire to the man himself."

Sitting back, Jethro stabbed at another bite of food, chewing slowly.

"That's a thinking look."

Washing the morsel down with another sip of wine, her handler leaned back in. "It is…"

Monty cocked an eyebrow.

"…how about this: we can both agree that, if he does recognise us there's not much we can do about it, yes?" said the man softly.

"Sounds about correct."

"And if he links us back it could prove problematic."

"I just said that."

Now Jethro shot his girl a lopsided smile. "So lets not bother trying to prevent him recognising us; what we really need is to dissuade him from making the Istanbul connection..."

She held his gaze but remained silent.

"...if he did get only a glimpse, then he will find it difficult to connect us to one specific locale or another, and _that_ I think we can turn to our advantage."

"And if it was more than a glimpse?"

"Well then we're sunk anyway aren't we?"

There was a pause before...

"I _assume_ you have a plan."

"The trappings of… I just hope he visits the same places we frequent."

The ex-conman took another sip of wine. "Finish eating before it goes cold, then we'll sit down and sort out how to play this."

The rest of the meal passed in near silence, broken by the occasional significant look or intimate murmur to maintain their ruse whilst two minds churned away. As empty plates were replaced by measures of cognac, Jethro slid around the booth again to join his partner, the girl leaning back against him to talk more easily in the buzzing lounge whilst still maintaining her vigil.

Monty pursed her lips. "So, if my read is correct; what you're looking for are places both Hermes and we are likely to have been..."

"Yes."

"...that are not Istanbul, or Colombia."

"Yes again," now the spy lifted his glass to his lips, nosing through pungent fumes to take the first sip, "start with what we know about him."

The girl replicated his movement, before swirling the deep amber liquid in thought. "He's a forwarding company representative working, somewhere along the line, for a Greek shipping concern... though the cover name he is using suggests Turkish origins, and he's known to travel widely... perhaps one of the destinations off the itinerary we were sent?"

There was a pause as this was mulled over.

"It's certainly a possibility, though something more illicit might be preferable," he lowered his head closer to the auburn hair resting against one shoulder, pitching his voice even lower, "and believe it or not I don't feel entirely able to talk with authority on all those places."

Background buzz cascaded back over the quiet conversation.

"He was using a private car in Istanbul, so assumedly that's his home port, and of course he's known in the Polo Club... though we want to avoid mentioning either..." Monty frowned into her glass, free hand moving up to massage at her upper arm as she thought "...and he doesn't just deal in shipping, but also with, at minimum, air-Russia."

This time Jethro's reply was quicker, one hand moving to halt his girl's massaging digits. "_And_ he was in the Polo Club at the same time as Rade."

"That doesn't mean they were both talking to Omur at the same time."

"No it doesn't, but given the timeframe there's a fair chance it _does_, and he came to Colombia by Ilyushin... I think I may have our answer."

His partner glanced up, eyebrow raised, to receive a lopsided grin in reply. "Where does every single ex-Soviet bird and Russian lost boy eventually pass through? Somewhere with low security, and a conveniently blind eye for..."

"_Quiet."_ Monty's tone was suddenly clipped, far from the contemplative rhythm of moments before. Jethro did as he was told, and the cyborg felt his breath brush against her ear as he leaned in closer, still pretending to talk as, through her narrow sightline, a familiar face appeared. "Look who just arrived."

In the cream-marble reception a neatly groomed man was standing at the counter; Mediterranean complexion and dark suit contrasting vividly against light stonework. Beside him was parked a compact wheeled suitcase, with a small valise resting atop it, both half covered by a navy trench coat. It represented more than could be carried as cabin baggage that was for sure, unusual for a regular traveller... did that mean he, like the Blackers, was transporting items he would prefer not to try his luck with at airport security?

As she watched he finished signing the flimsy piece of paper which had been handed over by the receptionist, and swapped it for a key card. Saying something across the counter he picked up his coat and valise, before stepping out of sight. Monty's heart skipped a beat.

_If he was heading straight back out again they were in trouble, she couldn't very well give chase from here._

Another staffer appeared from behind the wall, carrying a tagged key whilst the hotel porter retrieved the remaining luggage. The second staffer however hurried past the lifts and cut left behind the wall the fratello's booth backed onto; shoes tapping down rear steps. Moments later he was trotting among parked cars outside to one of the reserved bays, releasing its barrier lock and laying the steel tubing flat, just as had been done for the Audi that morning.

Slowly the adrenalin spike passed, but she still let out a small sigh of relief as a silver Skoda Octavia rental pulled in. Emerging from the driver's door, 'Itri Demirer' exchanged quick words with the hotel's man, who handed over the key before moving quickly and gratefully back inside. Out in the cold his guest bent down to reset the barrier with practiced hands... seemingly he had done this before.

_Well that's a positive sign._

Car secured, Hermes' travelling representative stopped to wrestle the bollard key onto his car fob and, giving his door one last tug, headed up the building's length.

Jethro's lips were once again against his partner's ear. "Keep an eye on him once he reaches the bar, and make sure he sees us watching."

"You're certain that's where he's going?"

"Too much supervision still around the port at this hour, and it's cold: he'll want a drink."

With that the handler pressed a kiss against Monty's ear, angling so she could watch the door through the crowd. Per prediction, as another kiss landed his girl withdrew slightly, still keeping their heads close.

"Here he is."

Picking up her glass again she polished off the cognac, and Jethro looked to the bar where their mark had indeed leant up against its counter, deep in discussion with a barman. As the server departed, Demirer surveyed the room, and the British spy let their eyes lock before glancing away and down to say something to the girl he held in one arm. At his motion, Monty let a perplexed expression swim across her face and followed his sightline, catching the gaze also, then looked up reply to her partner.

Now they had the man's full attention.

Jethro leaned down again, "Wait here, but be ready to move," before sliding over his girl and out of the booth.

Standing, the ex-SIS man smoothed his suit and started toward the bar, watching the other tense almost imperceptibly as trained, but not entirely suppressed, fight or flight reflexes took hold. Keeping his pace to an easy amble the spy sidestepped his way through night time revellers to pull up beside Itri, and gave the man a carefully evaluating look.

"You look familiar, have I seen you before?" now he paused and the pretence of confuddlement dropped away, "...on the ground in _Sharjah_ perhaps."

It wasn't a question, but mentally Jethro held his breath: time to see if his assumption was correct and if this gamble would pay off.

Sharjah was one of the smaller members of the United Arab Emirates, and boasted little of consequence to its name except for one of the world's most laxly policed international airports. The government kept its distance, content to collect landing taxes and sell jet fuel to the hodgepodge collection of independent operators and two-bit freight lines which called its dusty hardstands home. No fencing and no patrols meant anyone could walk out onto the tarmac, and anyone did; seeking crew and aircraft to transport cargos or take jobs which might never have made it across the barbed wire at a more strictly run establishment.

But this was Sharjah, a paradise for aviators willing to bend the rules, an earthly Mos Eisley on the shores of the Persian Gulf; and anyone who flew via Ilyushin or Antonov with regularity would eventually find themselves standing on its cracked and pitted apron.

Another second ticked past.

Then, much to Jethro's hidden relief, Demirer's shoulders relaxed and a grin spread across his face. "I thought you two looked familiar..."

Smile and the world smiles back, and the spy mirrored that expression. "Thank God, I thought I might have been going crazy..."

Stage one complete, miss-direct in place and common ground found.

"...Join us for a drink?"

There it was, another hesitation, a quick dart of the eyes; again almost, but not quite entirely suppressed.

_If he survives long enough, he'll be quite good... assuming he isn't just playing that._

"I'll only be able to make it one."

"I understand completely; there's a point in life at which the night before ceases being worth the morning after."

"Oh it's not that, but I have places to be later Mr...?"

"Charlie Forsythe," Jethro held out his hand, the other signalling the barman on his way back with Demirer's drink. "I fear you may have to wait for me to get another round then."

"Demirer, Itri Demirer. It's a pleasure to meet you... again."

A tall glass was placed in front of the Hermes rep, clear alcohol and ice distorting the bright red chilli stabbed down one side, slit to let the drink swirl through its interior.

"Very minimalist..." Jethro looked across the bar. "...Two Americanos."

Producing two short glasses the barman moved away to retrieve vermouth and Campari, and the spy hoped his mark wouldn't read anything too much into the choice of lighter beverage. If he did, Itri remained silent.

"Looks like proper rocket fuel."

The rep studied his glass. "I said I was having _one _drink, that didn't mean it had to be a weak option. Besides; this is good on a cold night."

"I imagine so, where'd you find _that_ first time?"

"Moscow."

"Vodka based then." It was a statement.

That brought a snort of laughter. "How'd you guess?"

"_Experience."_

The talk remained amiable and inconsequential until, paying in cash, Jethro lead the way back to his booth, holding two new glasses high, away from wayward elbows. Demirer politely took the closest side, his back to the room, allowing the SWA man to slide in next to his girl, placing her drink before her. This time however he merely sat close, gesturing across the table.

"Itri, this is Vesper Fleming. Vesper, Itri Demirer... you were right, it _was_ Sharjah we recognised him from."

Taking the cue, Monty reached across the table to shake hands. Accepting the gesture, the rep held slightly longer than was strictly polite, eyes evaluating the waif-like girl. Finally he released her, looking between the two opposite, as if not entirely sure which to address.

"Perhaps a little young to be dragged through the UAE's sewers."

The cyborg's eyes narrowed: _and yet nothing said about the drink or the kiss. Did he not care? Was he squeamish? Or had he just filed the information away for later use?_

"I'm his _partner_." The tone was cold.

"What sort of partner?"

Out of sight, Jethro placed a hand on his girl's thigh and gave it a calming squeeze. "Vesper is learning my business, she's my understudy."

"She looks like she should be in high school."

"Academics are fine for some..." now Monty leaned forward, returning the previous evaluation from behind heavy eyelids. Resting her elbows on the table top, drink in one hand, she ran the sweating glass across the bottom lip of her part open mouth, turning it glossy, "...others learn better in a..." an eyebrow cocked, "... more _practical_ classroom."

Silence, and in it Jethro released his girl's leg, instead reaching across her shoulders to draw her gently back against the seat where she sipped at her cocktail, still holding the gaze opposite. His action however seemed to cause Itri to change mental gears, glancing again between the fratello.

"Which raises the next question: why you were in Sharjah to begin with? It's not exactly a top tourist destination."

"Why is anyone in Sharjah?" returned Jethro, drawing the man's attention back to him.

"Caught the wrong flight?"

_Time to move this on a bit._

"We needed an aeroplane to move cargo places where others may... be less inclined to try landing."

"What sort of cargo?"

"Humanitarian aid: blankets, tents and the like."

That caused the Hermes man to quirk a brief smile. The comment was innocuous enough: ex-Soviet haulage was cheap and a favourite of aid organisations. Of course the crews loved the work also: Big UN or NGO decals made landing easy, and blankets and tents took up a lot of volume, but were also light and pliant, leaving plenty of lift capacity for... other cargos. Many an aid worker had been quoted blindingly cheap haulage by 'altruistic' operators, often ironically unaware that the same plane carried the very weapons used to kill those they were trying to help. If Demirer knew his business then...

"And of course something to carry on the way back as well."

The spy raised his eyebrows knowingly. "Those chaps don't like to fly empty."

"I certainly wouldn't like to be covering their return leg out of my own pocket," now Monty leaned back into the conversation. "In the great grand scheme of things their costs are minimal, but not _that_ minimal."

"You could always abandon the plane and crew."

"You could; and it happens," Jethro swirled the ice around his glass, "but there's a lady in South Africa may take umbrage to that approach, and I'd rather like the option to charter again."

Silence, but Itri's evaluating gaze had changed, and seeing the fratello seemed to have managed to establish some credentials, the ex-con decided to press his advantage. "Have you been in Sharjah recently?"

"No, not for a good six months."

"I heard rumour going around that the Sheikh was trying to clean up the airport and start pushing for a more legitimate market."

"I do not like his chances, not in the near future anyway." Monty sipped at her drink. "That airport's too economically important."

"I wouldn't be so sure," put in her handler, "where there's a will..."

"Look at it like this then," returned the girl, glancing between the two men. "Sharjah doesn't have the square mileage to extract a great deal of mineral wealth; that's why the airport was built in the first place, and unfortunately for the Sheikh he has Dubai right next door. Even in recession that's serious competition for tourist and business spending."

Now the Hermes rep gazed at her steadily. "I had heard the same rumours."

"I'm not saying it'll never happen, but it would be an uphill struggle."

"Either way, it does rather feel like the noose is tightening sometimes," Jethro glanced into his now almost empty glass with a morose expression, then quirked a bitter smile. "There're these rumours, the internet's not helping either, and of course many of the old Soviet chaps have either been knocked off or are edging into retirement... and the newer generation seem to be less amiably corruptible."

"And less able to bend the system," put in Itri.

"Exactly," the spy upended his tumbler and drained the last of the cocktail there, leaving just ice cubes. "I had a couple of good routes looking to be set up as well; but my best source has put out to pasture and I'm finding a spot of bother locating a new one whom can supply some of the more specialised orders."

If the man opposite had been a dog, at that moment two ears would have pricked up. "What sort of routes?"

_Subtle._

"Good ones, ones which would have kept a steady income for a couple of years at least."

"It'd be a shame to lose those simply because no-one wanted to supply."

"You don't need to tell _me_."

There was silence again, and Jethro waited whilst mental gears turned, one hand back out of sight again under the table and massaging at his cyborg's leg; the only outward sign of any tension. If the other man hadn't realised what game was being played yet, the subtle action would hopefully be enough to give it away.

_And it was nice to be able to let some of that tension loose for once._

Across from the Blackers, Demirer had leaned back in his seat, glass held loosely and a contemplative look on his face. Finally, he seemed to come to a decision.

"If you tell me where you're shipping to, I might be able to suggest someone in the general area. I... have contacts... who are good for that sort of thing."

The handler didn't blink. "Distance doesn't worry me; margin and quality do... and genuine Russian stamps _do_ fetch a higher price."

"This is true, and it _is _still possible to get them so long as you know the right people..." Now the other man held up his drink, "...in fact the proprietor of where I first discovered this is currently being _very_ helpful."

Internally Jethro hid a wry smile; that sounded like all he was going to get right now. "He runs a club?"

"Yes... they do a particularly good house version, high quality ingredients but without charging the earth."

_And there was the prod to see if he'd take the bait._

"Sounds like the sort of place we need to go and buy a drink or two ourselves... you wouldn't happen to have an address perchance?"

"Not on me no, I'd have to go and look it up."

"If you could... it'd be helpful to have someone to sit down and discuss conduits out of country as well; a little local knowledge never hurt."

"If that's the case, I'd be happy to give you an introduction," Itri polished off the clear cocktail, buying time, then glanced at his watch, "However, that may need to be a conversation for another night, I must get going... how long are you in Odesa for?"

Jethro glanced at his girl, whom replied for him. "Another day or so."

"Well I'm out the day after tomorrow, so tomorrow night?"

"That I think would be manageable."

Placing his glass down with a tap, the Hermes rep glanced around. "Though lets head somewhere a little rowdier; Club Palladium rather than the Café Lounge."

"Time?"

"Call it seven," now he looked squarely at Monty, "and Ms. Fleming, dress for it: these eastern types don't know much about class, but glitz and excess they can do in spades."

With that he was gone, and Jethro moved his hand off his girl's leg and around behind her back so he could lean in, "You right to get a rattle on as well?"

"Always."

From where she sat, the cyborg kept track of their mark forcing his way through the crowd toward the lounge exit. Timing was going to be key here: the windows' reflective exterior, maintained that way at night by powerful, skyward pointed floodlights, would conceal the fratello from outside whilst they remained seated. Getting from there to the Audi however would be a different matter.

"He's out."

On cue, Jethro slid quickly out of the booth, Monty close on his heels and made for the lift gallery. Once hidden from the café's view however, the fratello ducked around to Palladium's rear service entrance, its male half heading down stairs to the door whilst his companion remained next to the window above, craning around try and see up the line of vehicles beyond.

It was no use, and she slipped down to join her handler. "Can't see a thing, he must have come down by the building rather than on the cars' road side."

"Bugger. Right, well, cross your fingers then."

Contrary to his instruction the girl did not do as told, instead stripping off her Mondrian dress to reveal charcoal tones beneath, PPK already tucked securely up into the small of her back. Wrapping the garment up into a loose bundle, she stood back as Jethro cautiously opened the door a crack and peered out.

No establishment wanted to put its refuse on show, and the area outside was illuminated only by reflections from the floodlit wall above. With a little luck the cracked door would remain unnoticed in shadow to anyone looking.

_Nothing, again._

"If he came down the side of the building, then he's already reached his car."

Monty leaned down next to her handler, "I've not heard an engine."

Opening the door wider Jethro was out, his girl close behind, and wasting no time they moved quickly up the row of front bumpers to the reverse-parked Audi, still usefully hidden behind its SUV neighbour's bulk. Handing over the parking lock key so his partner could release them, the spy aimed his keyfob at the car and held down the unlock button. From the vehicle came the click of solenoids shooting back, but no accompanying flash of indicators, and he slipped behind the wheel, listening.

Then Monty was in the passenger seat. "No time to put that guard back up."

"I'm sure we'll survive."

A minute passed in silence.

"We haven't missed him have we?"

Jethro squeezed the girl's leg. "I doubt it, as you said; we would have heard him start it. My guess is he's on the phone."

"About us?"

"Most likely, I'd say it's not his call on how much information can be bartered."

From further up the line came the rattle of an engine firing and, at the same instant, the SWA man depressed his own starter switch, masking the Audi's quiet 6-cylinder cough behind its counterpart's more raucous four. That engine note rose slightly, only to dip again as someone fed in a clutch.

"Short conversation."

White reversing lights were extinguished, allowing tail lamps to once again paint the scene red, and Jethro nosed out onto the tarmac proper behind them.

"Can you see anything?"

Beside her handler, Monty peered into the night. "That's definitely Itri's car."

"Good."

Idling up the street, Jethro doused his own lights until the Octavia indicated left, disappearing out around the intersection. Secure in the knowledge his mark would not see them blink into existence, he flicked the dial around onto auto and gave sauntering chase.

The journey across town from Palladium to Odesa's port, sprawled the full length of the town's north-facing shoreline and around the curve of its small, crescent bay, was not a complex one. On quiet night time streets Jethro held his distance, allowing the occasional car to slip between him and his quarry as they passed through another intersection, tyres rumbling over recessed tram tracks.

Those however disappeared as they closed on the waterfront, classically styled buildings lining the tarmac drawing closer, squeezing traffic between parked cars under street-lamp-hung trolley bus wires.

"We're going to run out of space real fast in here."

Craning forward in her seat, Monty only let out a mumbled reply as their target turned off to the left behind a low row of apartments, and her handler squeezed the throttle a little more to try and close the gap.

Carrying extra speed through the same corner he directed his car away from bent bollards marking off the extremity of a wide parking area and downhill behind graffiti-strewn concrete retaining walls, the hum of tarmac giving way to rumbling cobble stones. The trolley bus lines were gone now, but as trees reared up on the left hillside, a familiar set of tail-lights burned ahead, and Jethro eased back, following as they turned onto the port perimeter road.

This part of town had a more spacious feel, with large gaps between buildings and wooded parks; houses on their own plots of land. As pursuer and unwitting pursued passed the port main entrance however, the hallmarks of living near industry, noise and pollution started to make themselves evident: crumbling concrete facades, Fiat based Ladas in the place of expensive SUVs, the odd patch of graffiti... and so it continued, past the passenger terminal and neon-edged Odessa Hotel, built on the liner quay itself and north up the coast, flood-lit hardstands silhouetting boxy outlines against a gradually fogging sky.

Through gaps in the buildings Monty could plot their progress as bright public areas gave way to the spindly booms of general-cargo handling cranes and dry-bulk loaders. Turning right to continue following the waterfront, giant silos reared up before the Blackers, glowing steel mountains to backdrop rail yards beyond the road.

"If we believe the Google shots there's a multi-purpose wharf up here a bit further," the girl glanced toward her partner, "I'll wager that's where Itri is headed."

"I'm surprised he didn't head for the main container yard to the south."

"It's the Special Economic Zone, probably too much security for his taste... and frankly I'm not complaining."

Pausing, Monty gestured to where, further up the road the port's silo storage had burst its perimeter, more of the massive cylinders propped up on the landward side of the tracks, thin gantries connecting them to their brethren inside. "When he turns in, drop me off up there, I can use the conveyor runs."

It didn't take long for the girl's suspicion to be confirmed, and barely a mile up the road, as the Octavia passed under a bundle of wide, welded steel pipes it turned off to follow their path into the complex.

Continuing steadily another two hundred yards past the entrance, Jethro pulled up under the closest silo group's mountainous bulk, marching two by two soldier-like back from their owners' offices toward the quayside.

The buildings separating them from the road were an eclectic mix of Soviet angles and run-down 19th Century constructions, windows dark and open car parks all but empty. What they also lacked was anywhere to pull up in cover; but Jethro made do, moving the Audi to a spot between a couple of scraggly trees. As soon as the car had rolled to a halt, his partner was out and gone, cap in place and a small satchel slung across her body.

Dull night closed around Monty as behind her the Audi's lights faded to nothing, its dark grey paint melting into shadow, and surveyed what lay ahead. About thirty feet away, blocking the roadway between buildings was a solid steel vehicle gate; what looked like a guard station on one flank, connected to the crumbling building she now stood beside. No cameras visible on the outside and the station windows were dark, though bets were fair something watched its inside face.

Another tree in the little stand her handler had parked amongst gave rapid passage to the roof, and Monty stepped lightly from it onto ancient asbestos sheet. Treading carefully so as not to dislodge any of the deadly mineral fibres, the girl made her way to the inside edge of the building and looked down at the gate's inner face, then right toward the covered truck-wash bay beyond it. On the bay's front facade was indeed a CCTV camera, pointed down at the gate; catching vehicles entering... she checked herself... no, _exiting_ between her perch and the high fence separating it from the silo-farm beyond. Further east toward the water lay another squat metal construction with two weigh-bridges on its ramp, likely a dump-station for loads of grain or sugar, and further still the rising square bulk of a conveyor transfer tower. That tower was where she needed to be, from whence she could climb gently rising gantries toward the wharves.

Edging deeper into the port along the gutter line she drew level with the truck wash: her bridge into the silo-farm. It wasn't a big gap between rooftops, but the structure beneath her feet did not exactly inspire confidence, and the cyborg combination of greater mass and greater power was not helping. Unfortunately the only other options were to try and reach the dump station, which was an even longer jump or drop down to skirt through the waste ground between her and the tower... and she didn't feel like risking muddy shoes.

Monty glanced at her watch; a good five minutes since breaking off from Demirer.

_No time to dally._

Making sure her feet rested on roof sheet fixing screws the girl tested her weight, then took two steps and leapt as lightly as she could across the void below, thudding into her target, fingers scrabbling for a handhold as she hung against its wall.

Finally finding purchase she dragged herself up onto the truck bay roof and skipped quickly across its gentle curve to drop into the silo yard beyond. It was dark here, the structures' upper regions floodlit but asphalt around their bases left swathed in shadow, bulky cylinders rising above like some science-fiction film set. Moving next to one of the steel behemoths, the cyborg stopped to listen. Somewhere could be heard footsteps, but the sound reflecting metal made it all but impossible to pinpoint their source, mixed in with the hum of machinery, as the night-watchman made his rounds.

The silos connected to their neighbours at the tip, a long slender gantry running the row's length, assumedly allowing access for maintenance and the shuffling of product between units. At their bases however, each stood on a high concrete plinth, well above the girl's head with a small awning and doors allowing access into the gubbins underneath, feeding the transfer tower and ultimately to waiting ships.

_At least she wouldn't need to hunt for a ladder._

Staying close to the exit road, Monty moved quickly up the length of the yard, squeezing between plinths and the dump station to pause at the latter's eastern extremity. There was still no closer sign of the watchman, but from the tower's interior came the rumble of machinery and, making one more visual check, the girl slipped into the station's pit.

It was even darker down here, and thick with grain dust as conveyors roared above her, squinting against gritty wind as her eyes adjusted. Fortunately the cramped space didn't go far, and there was low light at the end of the tunnel. From its source whirred a new noise, and as it reached a crescendo the young agent emerged into dim fluorescent glows, reclaim conveyor end whirring above her head into a large metal bin. From that powerful pumps lifted the grain higher through wide piping to dump it onto out load conveyors, filling the air with sparkling motes, and Monty stifled another cough as the dry particles assaulted her throat and sinuses.

Finding the stair which circled up the tower she took one more look around to ensure she remained alone and scampered skyward, one hand brushing against an outer wall as she did so. The metal sheet was thin, and cold from outside burned straight through. It had to be well below freezing out there, and the running cyborg offered up a quick prayer of thanks to the God of engineers for creating a noisy environment: if the walls could not stop the cold there was little chance of them dulling her footfalls.

The top of the tower arrived quickly, and there she paused. She had two options: run across the tops of the enclosed conveyors, and risk being spotted from the ground, or remain inside on the belt-flanking catwalks, with the grain-dust, noise and no escape.

Jumping up to grab a steel brace behind metal cladding, the girl swung herself through the narrow gap between tower wall and conveyor shelter, out onto the roof.

Icy cold hit her as she exited into blessedly clean air, and crouching low in the hope that the conveyor's height would help shield her from prying eyes she set off. Far above the active port the intruder kept her speed down, lolloping quietly across corrugated sheet. It made for torturously slow progress, but should she be spotted there was at least the chance of being mistaken for an overly-adventurous teen; unless of course someone managed to corner her and found the PPK.

_But first they would have to catch her._

The next tower was shorter and Monty leapt lightly up onto it, coming in almost flat and rolling across the top to drop down onto the next conveyor run. Ahead and to the left lay the container wharf, visible between two groups of silos and lit up like day under powerful floodlights. No rumble of machinery came from that direction beyond that of the dock cranes, the wharf's single berth taken up by a giant intermodal transport.

The nearer silo group lay close to the water, a compact block parallel with the dock edge feeding gangly out load gantries, its outline blurred as more fog descend over the scene, wrapping the lights in glowing halos. The further comprised of a single row, set at an angle to squeeze between its compatriot and some other obstruction, end thrusting out over the container hardstand as a mountain spur over plains. That would give her a view almost directly down into the operations area where tall ship-to-shore cranes plied back and forth; that was where she wanted to be.

Two more transfer towers slipped below her before the conveyor turned sharply toward water, over rail yards far below. As it started to curve back south the girl dropped her passage onto the landward side of the sloping roof, masking her silhouette to the city behind.

Her destination was closer now, a row of eight cylinders with the roof Monty now ran along arriving two thirds of the way up their height. From there the top loading conveyor was fed by a central set of lift augers, supported by a steel lattice and the running spy swung herself amongst its girder spider web.

Scrambling to the top she cautiously peeked up onto service runs, their darkened length punctuated by dim florescent tubes and crisscrossed with distorted shadows thrown by muted sulphur lamps below. The roar of conveyor systems, so loud to the north now faded to a mere background hum, framing and giving the silence up here form, punctuated by the occasional yell or clatter floating up from the hardstand below; another world connected only by the most intangible of threads.

Also absent were other people, and hoisting herself onto the spindly catwalk, Monty dashed for its port end.

The roof here was gone, as were protective walls; the conveyor instead running inside light ducting, and closing on the gantry terminus the girl crouched down beside it before laying prone to look over the scene spread below.

The waterfront was a hive of activity, cranes picking up containers two at a time to fit them amongst their brethren already aboard ship, each slotting into its pre-assigned position like the world's most organised game of Tetris. Underneath, tiny figures ran backwards and forward, their vehicles adorned with flashing amber beacons... Itri wasn't going to be there.

One row back, mobile TEU handlers shifted more units seaward in reach of the tall gantries, but behind that things were quieter. There in the long stack a pocket had been cleared, leaving just a single-width wall of containers between it and the active area. Beside the clearing, rear aimed in at an angle was parked a semi-trailer, roof beacon cutting amber trails in the mist, its back supporting one battered 40-foot box with "Maersk" painted down its flank in block capitals.

_Not "Hermes"..._

Reversed up close beside it, such that any transfer between would be hidden inside the pocket itself, stood a somewhat battered ex-military 10 ton truck. Unless she was very much mistaken, that would make a pretty good and inexpensive replacement for, say, an equally battered Unimog previously abandoned somewhere in Anatolia.

_It would certainly be large enough to carry the weapons consignment sent to Colombia._

What distinctly lacked were any movements between the two, and if there were no machinery working she had probably missed her chance to view that consignment being moved and confirm its contents.

_Bollocks._

Back from the two trucks, headlights illuminating the pocket's pavement, were parked a silver saloon and white Hilux, the latter's own beacon flashing away. Slowly, not taking her eyes off the scene, Monty reached back to extract her high-powered binoculars from their case and lifted them to her eyes.

Suddenly the view was no longer that of some far off omnipotent presence, but one so close she could almost touch it, the people pieces on a chessboard, just beyond her fingertips. How must it have been for someone like Massimiliano Anasetti, for someone like Kara, to be able to reach out and take those pieces from the field?

_Problematic in the long run if you happened to be Monty Blacker: that's what._

The binoculars were no match for a spotter's scope, or even the big lens on her camera, but they beat attempting this unaided and the watching cyborg focused as best she could on the container's open rear doors. Assumedly Itri was inside and, aside from the semi driver waiting in his cab, the only signs of human movement came from two men milling by the other truck. Shifting interest she found the container's code, blurred by airborne moisture but still legible.

The binoculars were placed down carefully, and extracting her mobile for a pocket, the girl pulled off her cap to hold the phone inside as she unlocked its screen. Quickly she typed the code in as a text to her handler rather than risk losing the device, and raised the glasses once more to check it was correct.

_But codes could be changed._

Her thumb hovered over the send button, before flashing around to extend the message.

"_...try that when you get home, I'll give you a yell when I need picking up."_

Slipping the phone away, Monty replaced her cap and settled in with her binoculars again. It would be best if Jethro had the Audi back before their mark returned to the hotel, but she wanted to see where that container went. The ship lacked any handling equipment of its own, so wherever it was stored now, there it should assumedly remain; unless of course the boat made another port before reaching Genoa.

A minute passed.

Suddenly movement caught the observing girl's eye and, from the back of the container emerged a man in uniform high-vis, followed by another in suit pants and a navy blue and orange flight jacket, reflective strips glowing under lights. The first she didn't recognise, probably a port contact, but as the second turned around a thin smile spread across her face.

_Hello Itri._

Light flared as her mark lit up a cigarette, the two men exchanging words before turning to close up and lock their container. Jogging along the truck's length the port employee mounted its running board to speak with the driver, before lifting a radio microphone off his pocket. Seeming to get a response he wanted the, probably a superintendent, banged on the cab's door before jumping clear to wave at the driver off. Hurrying back for the Hilux as Hermes' man clambered into his own rental, the dock worker leaned down to Demirer's window, motioning toward the gate as he did so.

_Of course, without beacons the ten tonner and Itri would need an escort, which meant..._

There was a distant clatter as the ex-military vehicle's engine fired, followed by the two passenger cars beside it, and slowly the little convoy set off; Hilux leading the way. As it did so there was another rumble and the semitrailer started to move the opposite direction. Monty paused: she couldn't follow both...

...ignoring Itri's group, her binoculars tracked the Maersk container on its journey.

That turned out to be a short one. Pulling around the end of the container row, the big rig halted across the next gap and its driver jumped down to start releasing trailer locks. As he disappeared behind the truck one of the container handlers finished shifting its latest load and, with a swiftness suggesting its operator had been forewarned, turned toward the waiting prime mover.

The timing was impeccable, and as the truck driver reappeared around the front of his vehicle the big handling arm clamped down on the 40 foot TEU and lifted it clear, rotating to place it high on the transient stack beside Odesa's wharf. Once there the metal box was still for barely half a minute before, as the semitrailer started to pull away, one of the behemoth ship-to-shore cranes lifted it with its neighbour to whiz them out over the waiting carrier. It was a slick operation, practiced, leaving Itri's consignment as little chance of being intercepted onshore as possible. This was no group of first timers; they'd done this before, and regularly.

Noting where the container lay on the ship's fore/aft, port/starboard grid, the spy shifted her attention to its prow where Asian characters stared back at her in white and, below them the ship's name in English.

_Anagnos Dragon._

With a name like that bets were fair this vessel serviced an Asian route, probably China. That was reason for concern, and Monty scanned along the hull's length to its stern where a Greek flag flew. The fastest and safest course to the Far East was via the Suez Canal then down through the Red Sea, or out past Gibraltar and starboard to navigate the Northeast Passage above Russia. In the depths of winter the latter would be most certainly closed, but any ship which made it through the Bosphorus to Odesa would fall well within Suezmax size limitations. One way or the other _Anagnos Dragon_ could quite easily make it to China without ever drawing in shouting distance of Italy.

Of course it was always possible the ship would do a circuit of the Mediterranean first before departing east... all things considered, checking a sailing schedule may not be a bad idea.

That though would have to remain for later. Itri would need a couple of hours to get back to the hotel and settle before she could call Jethro out again; and it perhaps wouldn't hurt to see how deeply the Maersk box became buried anyway. Shuffling around on her grating, Monty tried to get a little more comfortable, and settled in for the long, cold wait.

* * *

><p>Dialling up the passenger seat warmer, Jethro pulled into a side street a couple of blocks back from Odesa's port, waiting until his partner slipped into her customary position, door closing quickly behind as she held frozen digits before dashboard heater vents.<p>

"Chilly out?"

"Just a touch." Monty leaned back to do up her seatbelt as the car pulled away. "I need to check sailing schedules back at the room."

"I'm well too, how are you?" That got him a flat look. "Can't it wait until morning?"

"Not if you want me to sleep any, and that double bed is small: your call."

Her handler sighed. "May I ask why?"

Quickly the young agent gave a rundown of what she had seen, and what she had missed. As her spiel reached its conclusion her partner glanced over. "Chances they'll be back tomorrow?"

"Minimal. The Anatolia truck has already left and, if the Padania are really skimming off the top as commission then one container should be plenty large enough to hide their shipment, even if the split were fifty-fifty. To be frank I doubt there's enough product going to Colombia to warrant a big cut."

"Could it be we've the arrangement backwards?"

"Again: doubtful, not with all the Anagnos infrastructure being utilised, and nothing has come up so far to suggest it might be the Italians paying out rather than the rebels."

"That doesn't mean to say the evidence isn't there."

"No, but I still don't think it's the Colombians supplying."

Now Jethro reached out to give his girl's leg a squeeze. "I'm inclined to agree, I guess we'd best put in a good showing tomorrow night."

Monty glanced at her watch. "Tonight."

"Tonight then… do you actually _have_ anything to wear clubbing?"

That gave her a moment to pause. "You know, I don't believe I do."

"Should you perhaps then go buy something?"

"Maybe," she paused to stifle a yawn, "I'll see what I can cobble together first; I think I might be able to get away with what I already have."

"Well _that_ part can certainly wait until morning; check your sailing schedules, but then _bed_."

* * *

><p>Leaning closer to the mirror, Monty applied a light dusting of shadow to the other eye, accentuating already heavy lids, and reached again into her minimalist makeup kit. Wiping on a thin sheen of lip gloss she stood back to evaluate the overall effect.<p>

As it turned out she _had_ avoided the need to buy extra clothing: the addition of go-go boots adding a younger, more casual bent to her sleek black dress, their white patent leather matching in with the latter's similarly toned yolk across her shoulders. A lightly padded bra helped give her figure a more mature edge and, happy with what was presented, the girl reached down to slip her PPK in its garter-carry holster up the inside of her leg to rest high against her thigh.

In the reflective glass a shape moved behind, and she looked up as her partner rested a hand on each of her shoulders. Gone was his preferred tuxedo, replaced by a simple button shirt with the sleeves rolled up, chinos and desert boots.

"Did you get your preliminary report off to Rome?"

"I did. Hopefully they'll be able to put it to good use."

"I wonder what Priscilla and Genco will make of _Dragon's_ sailing schedule?"

Now Monty looked up slightly to hold her handler's reflected eye. "That is anyone's guess, but Anagnos must have really wanted to hit Africa to risk sending her around the Cape."

Jethro's gaze moved down to meet her halfway. "That they must, but look on the bright side: between sailing out past Gibraltar and Greece's financial woes she's on a non-stop voyage from here to Genoa."

The next comment came deadpan. "Which means if Rome bollockses up their end, it will come back to bite us all the sooner."

"How long until _Dragon_ reaches Italy again?"

"Four to five days from tomorrow... give or take obviously."

"Well we've got Itri again in another…" he glanced at his watch, "…fifteen minutes. Then I'd say about two days to Moscow from here."

"That doesn't leave much margin for you to work your magic; and we're still assuming it _is_ Moscow."

"Every hint he dropped last time pointed to his supply contact being in Moscow, in a club in Moscow to be precise… we just need to find out which one: and with a bit of luck, even if everything does go all pear shaped, it will take a while for the panic to get that far along the grapevine."

"That's a nice thought, but we've only got Itri for tonight, and the itinerary Genco found backs his claim to leaving," the face of the girl he held turned deadly serious. "If you can't wheedle anything out of him this time we may need to consider more… direct… means."

Now Jethro leant down, letting hands slide around his partner's shoulders to massage slender upper arms, chin to resting in the crook of her neck. Cocking his head over slightly the handler shifted his eyes to meet hers in the mirror.

"Well luv, that's just a bridge we shall have to cross should we come to it." Standing again the man moved a hand to rest in the small of his girl's back. "For now, we have an appointment to keep."

Guiding her slender form lightly out the door, the spy did one last mental take of his own pockets: wallet, phone, watch on wrist… no pistol, no space for one. Tonight, that was going to be solely Monty's department, and as he checked the door was locked behind them she knelt down to place a hair across its frame gap.

Standing again the young spy allowed her partner to replace the hand and move her gently toward the lifts which carried them down to the hotel's ground level. Once there, rather than head for the lounge the pair turned left, exiting out reception.

Outside the sun had already set, night cold cutting like knives through thin clothing, and Jethro stepped a little closer to his girl, slipping his hand around further to press her against his side for the short walk up the building's flank. Whatever the architect's original reasoning for splitting hotel and club entrances it made for a decidedly brisk journey, but as tall double doors passed over the pair's heads, waved on by the man-mountain on bouncer duty, warm air rendered obsolete any thoughts of heavier coats. Fortunately the door charge was taken inside, and eighty hryvnya across the desk saw Jethro through, Monty being asked nothing beyond an unchallenged appreciative glace.

Inner doors deposited the fratello centrally on the ground floor, a long bar in one direction with tables and booths spread out in the other, upper balcony following the same curve with blue glowing arches along the walls mimicking the building's facade. Both looked in on the semi-circular dance floor with the currently unoccupied stage at its centre; backed by a riot of sheer concrete and metallic finishes. Beside her handler, the young cyborg's eyes moved up to take in lighting gantries high above, more metallic ornamentation suspended glinting and spinning below them, wires disappearing into darkness. Closer to ground level however two small, railed platforms framed the stage, each with a single stainless steel pole landing in its centre.

Monty nodded at one. "You really do bring me to _all_ the classiest places."

Jethro followed her gaze. "Only the best luv… is it just me, or does this seem particularly quiet to you?"

The cyborg looked around again. Contrary to expectations the space was warmly lit; metered at a level carefully judged to avoid transforming it into the worn dowager all such establishments were inevitably revealed as when the lights finally came up. It certainly wasn't the darkness of a jumping dance club, and only a few sparse groups were scattered around, either eating or making an early start on bottles of champagne.

"It does a little."

Now the tone was cautious and her handler felt his girl's stance subtly tense, ready for fight of flight; and so it was with great self-control that she did not immediately swing around as footsteps approached behind them.

"You beat me here; I was hoping to be earlier and find us a good table."

Turning as one the fratello faced Itri Demirer as he walked through the same entrance they had used, more muscular frame clothed in an untucked dress shirt over designer jeans and point-toed shoes.

"Well not by a large margin, so we'll still defer to your judgement," the men shook hands in greeting, "though the place seems pretty quiet, we should be able to have our pick."

"Palladium's a restaurant until nine, then it turns into a club after the kitchen closes."

Now Monty offered her own hand, but her tone was cold. "So I didn't _actually_ need to dress for clubbing."

"No, that was mostly for my own amusement…" the response was accompanied by a smile and clasped paw, and Jethro tightened his grip on his girl slightly, "…though in seriousness, if we go overtime it may not be a bad thing."

The girl's eyes narrowed slightly, but she said nothing as the Hermes man released his grasp: 'overtime' was an interesting choice of words, as if there were some set agenda to be completed. Apparently both parties had something they wanted from this ostensibly casual meeting.

If the man noticed her expression it was written off as a response to his toying, and turned to signal a roving waitress. As he twisted the girl caught sight of a lump briefly appear just forward of his hip.

_She wasn't the only one armed tonight then._

Being led up a set of stairs to balcony level, the three were settled in a corner booth; Jethro slotting into the back recess such that he could watch those approaching and Monty walled him in with her own body. As their companion landed opposite menus were produced and the waitress pulled out a pad.

"Would you like drinks to start off with?"

Jethro glanced at his girl, then nodded, "Two Negronis; on Tanqueray Ten if you have it, please."

"Two what?"

Beside her handler, Monty made an unimpressed face as the club failed her bar litmus test, but the ex-SIS man kept going, "Equal parts gin, sweet vermouth and Campari bitters, stirred in a short glass over ice with orange rind as garnish."

Itri also had to describe his own drink, and the girl scribbled madly, noting down each off-the-menu item before leaving them in peace.

"You look worried."

"I'm worried about what I'll get back," Monty glanced across the table at the Hermes man sat opposite. "The Negroni should be almost impossible to get wrong, but you would be amazed how many places still manage to make a hash of it."

There was an opening there, but it was too early in the evening, and beside his girl Jethro changed tack, "I presume whatever errand you needed to run last night proved successful?"

"Absolutely," Itri glanced at his menu but kept talking, "I do sometimes miss the freedom of working for myself, but it _is_ nice to have big resources to draw on as well."

_Was that supposed to be a threat? Or a hint?_

Whatever their original intent, the SWA cyborg slotted those words into her own slowly growing and ever more complex model of how the Padania operated. The question of course remained: was Itri actually referring to that organisation, or to Hermes' own network… or was he even aware of to whom he ultimately reported? It was quite possible that to him, whoever his client in Italy may be they were just that: another client paying for his and his company's professional, if illicit, services.

Now the waitress returned, tray carrying one tall glass and two short, which she proceeded to place in front of the group before retreating again. Monty took a tentative sip and wrinkled her nose.

Demirer was again eyeing her across the table. "Verdict?"

"Drinkable, but barely."

Itri raised his own glass. "These they don't do too badly though."

Presently the waitress returned to take food orders, which it was decided should be accompanied by a bottle of champagne 'to celebrate new friends', and which Jethro quietly put to good use making sure no-one's glass ever fell empty… along with its successor. That lasted until the end of desert whilst the conversation flowed between work and play; always seeming to somehow skirt around just beyond what anyone actually wanted to talk about.

Around them booths and tables were starting to populate, and as the hands on Monty's watch swung toward nine in the evening, the tall space's lights dimmed a level: warning those whom did not wish to dine with the animals that it was time to take their leave. As they did so, staff moved between settings, clearing dinner menus and equipment away. On cue the party's own waitress returned to retrieve plates, taking a last round of cocktail orders in the process: from here on in drinks would need to be bought at the bar.

Despite Jethro having ensured the bulk of the champagne disappeared into their companion's glass, the young agent tucked herself up beside him in a lazy attitude more in line with the amount of alcohol she had supposedly consumed. One of her partner's arms now draped across a shoulder, fingers gently stroking back and forward near her waist as he talked. "I actually find water transport often the better option around South East Asia… particularly if you can spare an extra day or two."

Across the table Itri, relaxing over the seat's full length, raised his eyebrows. "Even through Malacca?"

"Even through Malacca; if your cargoes aren't too large it's generally possible to find something fast enough to stay ahead of trouble. There are a couple of good operators actually based in around Mueang Trat."

"That's Thailand."

"It is. Most of what you'll find is around the eighty to a hundred foot mark, but quick."

Now the Hermes rep nodded. "Ah, we're thinking on different scales. I'm used to big ships."

"That _would_ make things riskier; but much of the air options around the place aren't so brilliant either, definitely not up the standards out of, say, Sharjah."

"There's some pretty average services run out of there as well."

"My point exactly."

Drinks arrived and Demirer swirled his such that when he placed it back on the table its red chilli continued in lazy circles around the glass. "To be honest with you, I don't see much of Asia beyond Hong Kong and Singapore, which aren't exactly pirate hubs."

"Depends on how you define 'pirate'." Jethro said it with a grin, then motioned with his own glass toward his opposite's drink. "You know, you've still not given us a name for that."

"This? It's called Circus Heat… seems to be the club I got it from's thing for naming house cocktails: Circus this, Circus that, Circus act, Three Ring Circus… it probably rolls of the tongue better in Russian."

"Why?"

"Why does it roll off the tongue better in Russian? Because they're Russian."

"No, why 'circus'?"

"The club's called 'Circus'…" The rep's face froze, but it was only for a moment and he picked up to solider on like nothing had happened. "…the proprietor really knows how to put on a show."

Letting her handler continue small talk, Monty filed the information away: Circus, Moscow. That was going to be at least another day's drive from here, and getting an early start probably was not likely to happen; particularly if Itri decided to hang around tonight.

_Of course, if he panicked…_

Around the group, Palladium's lights dimmed to nothing, leaving the space illuminated only by the neon "windows" on its walls, casting everything in a blue glow, and a cheer went up from the waiting revellers: the club was active. As their voices died away they were replaced by low, thumping bass, felt rather than heard, and Itri glanced at his watch.

"Is it that time already? Well, it has been nice talking shop; but I have an early plane to catch tomorrow."

Jethro raised his glass. "The pleasure has been all ours. We might hang around a little longer, but have a safe flight; hopefully we'll meet again."

"Indeed."

With that he was gone, disappearing into the crowd.

A storey below, the DJ's set started to gather steam, transitioning from pure bass thud into an upbeat, if dated, dance-floor anthem. As the volume rose, Monty leaned in closer to her partner. "I don't think we want to stay too long, it's still a day minimum to Moscow and if he squeals…"

"He won't squeal."

"How can you be so sure?"

The noise was even louder now, and the handler took a sip of his drink before nudging his girl up onto his lap so that they were nose to nose, her arms around his neck.

"How can I be so sure?" He leaned forward to nuzzle behind her ear. "Didn't you see his face? He was horrified that he'd let out his source; and I doubt it was his to give in the first place. If he thinks we didn't notice then he'll not likely be running off to go dump himself in a quagmire any time soon... and hope is a powerful thing."

"He seemed in a bit of a hurry to leave."

"Can you blame him?" Jethro let his hands slide off his girl's back and around her buttocks. "Had I let that sort of information slip I wouldn't want to risk lingering either, whether I thought _we_ had noticed or no... though I'd like to think I'd have managed my retreat with a _little_ more decorum."

Monty still looked dubious and pulling back her handler gave her a small half-smile. "Look at it this way: even if he does panic now, there's no way we can beat his phone call to Moscow. So we may as well make a later start tomorrow and be sure to leave after him to ease his noggin… and honestly, I don't feel like doing another single-stint run north anyway."

"_Fine._" Now the cyborg lowered her head to glare at her partner from under heavy eyelids, one brow cocked. "Still, can we _leave_ now?"

"Why luv, most people your age would kill to be let into a place like this!"

"Yes, but this particular person my age would kill to be let _out_."

That was answered by a teasing grin, but Jethro lifted the girl off his lap, stealing a last kiss before allowing her to slide out of the booth. Standing, he wrapped an arm around her as they started for the exit as below the music halted, leaving just the bass beat to be roared over by an accented voice.

"For those who aren't the real party people! Evacuate the dance floooooooor!"

"_With pleasure."_

* * *

><p>Night had closed over Italy hours past, but on the Social Welfare Agency campus lights burned in inky blackness. Some illuminated those still chained to their desks, whether by design or unfortunate accident, wading through piles of government bureaucracy, the curse of any state organisation.<p>

Others fell only on empty hallways or offices, their glow spilling through glass over equally deserted lawns, rural silence broken only by the occasional crunch of a guard's boot on gravel.

Yet more found themselves dimmed to warm the winter night, as below their perches sensitive information was shuffled back and forward; uncomprehending observers to the blackest of black deeds.

The light from one such group escaped windows looking out from the main administrative building's end, silhouetting the gathering inside as it was tended to by a single girl clothed inexplicably in a maid's uniform. Like a good butler, a good steward left the room _more_ than empty, and Tea moved unnoticed amongst her charges, unobtrusively refilling coffee cups and replacing dirty spoons before withdrawing to her position near the door.

Standing flanked by two rows of deep leather armchairs, Genco Ribisi glanced nervously at his direct supervisor, before continuing his report to the astronomically senior assemblage. "I haven't had much of a chance to go through the information, but umm, there's not much else there anyway."

"Unfortunately the drop was only found this morning," put in Priscilla, coming to her subordinate's aid, "but the gist is that Jethro and Monty expect a Padan weapons shipment to arrive in Genoa sometime over the next three or four days; probably from the same source as was used to supply Anasetti. Given the circumstances and timeframe, Genco thought it best to give you all an early heads up, and I agree with him."

Seated across from her, Jean Croce looked over. "Did they provide a vessel name?"

The intelligence superintendent glanced at her beleaguered subordinate who in turn studied his note paper. "The _Anagnos Dragon_, sir."

"That's a start," Jean paused, eyes turning toward the figure seated behind a heavy timber desk, "the window's tight, I would like to begin on preliminaries immediately, at least until we can sort out more if this would actually be a viable op."

Under the gaze, Chief Lorenzo leaned back in his chair, steepling fingers to study his subordinates from behind wire-framed spectacles. Then he nodded. "For now, work on the assumption we will be clearing this one unless something to suggest otherwise arises. I wouldn't mind some certainty around if the Blackers are on the right track... and I'm sure they'd like to know as well."

"Good," Jean took a swig of coffee, "I'll talk to Giorgio and see if any of the SRT are free to go do early recon. Ferro, do you have anyone available who could start addressing logistics?"

Seated beside the field commander, Ferro Milani gave a curt nod. "I'll _make_ someone available."

Now Lorenzo looked also to his second. "How are you for cybernetic assets?"

Jean pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off the weariness starting to creep in around his eyes. "Ricci, Pagani, Alboreto and Hilshire are all busy; as are most of those with undercover, sniper or intelligence experience. Unfortunately they'll continue having to shoulder the bulk of our operational load until we can figure out just how much damage the Anasetti Incident did to our security..."

"On top of that we have four cyborgs down for maintenance or repairs," added Ferro.

"...Which does land us inside the 80% readiness target."

"_Barely,_ and that depends on how you define readiness... we still have a lot off the active roster._"_

Now Priscilla piped up again. "Surely the re-streaming programme, or new builds, will start to ease some of that load soon?"

The SWA's support staff manager shook her head. "Not really, not the new builds at least. Having to re-prioritise roles for the last few slots has put the handler recruitment programme, and by extension the cyborg build programme, back at least a month; probably more..."

"...and the re-streaming experiment isn't proving as successful as we'd hoped either." Finished Lorenzo. "Unfortunately if things keep on the way they are, it's appearing more likely we will need to cut our losses and call that one failed. Nothing's been said as much to the staff at large, but Section One may well be fighting with one hand tied behind its back for a while longer yet."

"Which the politicians are just _loving_," put in Ferro darkly.

The Chief cleared his throat. "Back to the matter at hand though: cybernetic assets for this particular operation. I don't know about anyone else but I would at least like a _chance_ of sleeping in my own bed tonight."

Jean took another sip of black coffee. "Considering who we have available right now, at this stage I will take Rico myself, and probably Olivetti's fratello. The latter is inexperienced, but at least if we aim to do this inside the port it should be easier to manage witnesses."

"They're a combat unit," put in the Lorenzo.

"I know, but just about everyone available _is_... and Raych already failed her sniper assessment, so pulling her won't effect what remains of the re-stream. Assuming Giorgio can spare the people, my preference right now would be to set up a raid with cyborgs in backup and the SRT as our public face."

"You don't want more manpower?"

"Of course I do; but those are all we can spare before starting to dig too deep into the active reserve..."

"...not to mention maintaining a workable duty-fratello rotation," added Ferro.

There was a pause.

"Well at least if we spin it right this should help squeeze the next series build past the finance committee." Lorenzo pulled a grim face, then looked around the people arrayed before him. "Alright; for now assume this one preliminarily approved. Priscilla, give a priority to sorting out the rest of the Blackers' transmission in case there's anything else we need to know in there or that may trigger an abort. Jean, Ferro; get an interim plan on my desk by lunchtime tomorrow and I'll sign it off so you can at least start drawing assets officially. Work the rest out between yourselves and lets see what we can do toward breaking this one for good."

* * *

><p>"What did you order?"<p>

"Something appropriate."

Turning to her partner, Monty reached up to tweak some imagined imperfection from the open collar of his white dress shirt. "I'm always concerned by those answers."

"Why? Don't you trust me?"

That got a cocked eyebrow.

The landscape from Odessa to Moscow had been stereotypically monotonous, clothed in a uniform dull, cold light which sapped the earth of interest or vitality, and had been dispatched in two easy, equally tedious hops. Much of the Russian capital, still scarred by its Soviet past, suffered a similar lack of colour. However those wounds were healing, and flashes of opulent brightness were beginning to shine through the hardened grey shell.

The Blackers now stood beneath high ceilings in the lobby of one such flash, waiting for their night's transport. While the Audi was fit for most purposes, sometimes jobs required a little more pizzazz... and if anywhere required pizzazz, it was the new Moscow. Here in moneyed circles glitz and glamour counted for everything, and could form the decider between being allowed access somewhere you needed to go and getting turned away at the door.

Releasing the collar, Monty picked up her white woollen coat from where it rested on a plush seat, folding it neatly over one arm before laying the other across to hold it in place.

Jethro already wore his own camel garment, its maroon lining putting a buffer tone between warm-hued outer layers and the black of his tuxedo, the latter's silk shawl collar somehow creating a darker silhouette against fine worsted wool. Reaching down he placed an arm across Monty's shoulders, drawing her back so her head rested against his chest.

Now his voice was lower. "You had a chance to double check whom we're looking for?"

"Yes and it hasn't changed: one Zinoviy Bezborodov, owner of Circus. The club's website confirmed that and the papers have photos, fortunately he seems to get himself into trouble occasionally."

"Probably goes with the territory."

"That would be a broad territory worth of charges then."

The former SIS man was about to make a reply when the neatly uniformed concierge walked up. "Mr. Forsythe, Ms. Fleming, your car has arrived."

Slipping an arm down his girl's back to guide her out in the concierge's wake, Jethro twitched a little smile: it was good to be hearing that name again, and it was one which held fond memories. If Circus were as exclusive as the internet claimed, then it also may just be one which came in useful.

As they stepped out the lobby's revolving door, Moscow's winter cold hit the pair like a hammer. Fortunately a doorman was motioning to a black 4x4 which had pulled up under cover, a sliver strip running from tall front gills back under the doors to accentuate its long form. Moving half a pace ahead of his partner, the handler opened a rear door, helping her up with a hand on one firm buttock before sliding into the soft, white leather seat beside and sealing the Range Rover with an expensive thud.

Ignoring his seatbelt the spy kept one arm around his girl, holding her close pressed against his side whilst Monty kept up her part by running her own arm around behind his back. Catching the driver's eye in the mirror he motioned forward. "Circus if you would."

"Da."

With that the engine rumbled and the Russian driver eased his big vehicle out the driveway and into sliproad bustle running by the hotel front entrance. Unfortunately one way traffic forced the car to move with its un-ebbing flow, despite the apparent wealth of its passengers, helpless as driftwood in a fast running stream being swept further from their destination.

Resigned already to the roundabout route, Jethro pulled his girl a little closer. "Before we were so rudely interrupted, you were saying something about charges?"

Keeping one eye on the passing scenery as they looped around an interchange to return back the direction they had come, Monty moved her head close to her partner's ear. "Yes. Nothing to hint at an arms sideline mind; but possession and trafficking, racketeering, procuring, assault... at least one charge of sex with a minor."

"Well if he's still trading then they can't be hurting him too much."

Outside the hotel's brightly lit edifice slipped by again, now travelling the opposite direction, and the girl's eyes followed the building as their Range Rover continued on, bringing them to rest on her partner's face. "It was charges, not convictions... but he's not exactly being subtle about how he does business."

"So he's connected then."

"That would be the assumption; though part of me gets the impression you couldn't run a club successfully in this town without being so."

The road held course southeast, before its wide canyon of buildings ended abruptly to spit it out across suspended tarmac, hanging above the Moskva River. Landing on the opposite shore steel, concrete and stone construction again rumbled past, pre and post Soviet architecture intermingled with the era they bookended. Below the newer buildings, shop fronts advertising fine clothes peeked out past scurrying cars, as if mocking the Communist remnants, and the driver ducked off between their brightly lit panes into tight backstreets.

The walls were closer here, public lighting low to non-existent, and anyone out of doors hurried past quickly in the peculiar gait of urban dwellers, under closed and drawn-curtained windows.

"Doesn't look like much of a clubbing area," put in Monty.

"You'd be surprised."

The first hint that they were nearing something special came as a big Mercedes saloon oozed out of a side road ahead of the ambling four wheel drive, polished paintwork reflecting windows and street lamps as it slid below them. Shortly after the first walkers appeared, generally wrapped in coats, men with fur trimmings and women only displaying leg below thigh-length hems.

It wasn't until another street along they found the line, stretching back the length of its block. Instead of dropping them at the end however, their driver cruised along in the Mercedes' wake to pull up beside the main entrance. As the British vehicle rolled to a halt, directed to a parking space by a uniformed valet, Jethro opened his door and stepped out into the cold winter night. Stopping to shrug on his jacket he then turned to offer his partner a hand down, before helping her into her own coat. Moving toward the back of the queue however the pair were halted by one of the black-clad bouncers, stepping abruptly forward to motion for them to head directly for the club, behind the small group of two men and one woman whom had alighted from the car ahead.

Waiting her turn for appraisal, Monty looked down the recently bypassed line at other would-be patrons, ready to try their own luck against Moscow's notorious club-front "face control". Some there were definitely wasting their time, whilst others may have stood a chance; among them the occasional very cold looking girl who had obviously expected to be allowed immediate entry. The bouncer whom had sent the Blackers forward now stood halfway down the its length, and another at the tail end, fielding those arriving and directing them into position. Seemingly the expensive hotel and hire of car with driver for the night had been money well spent... so far at least.

The group of three was waved through, and as the pair of spies stepped forward Jethro shucked off his coat, his partner following suit before feigning pressing closer for warmth.

Similar to his Ukrainian counterpart, the man on the door apparently belonged to breeding stock that included mountain ranges in its genealogy, and he regarded the two from at least another head above the fratello's male half. Flicking eyes over Jethro his gaze moved to Monty, starting at the white patent leather boots, over her fitted dress to heavy lidded, lightly made-up eyes and glinting ear-rings swinging from each lobe. Faced with needing to display some opulence the girl had dug into her small and little used collection of jewellery, eventually settling on a set of white-gold Canturi pieces, their cubist segments dangling in shimmering, diamond-encrusted cascades above her shoulders. A matching cuff encased her left wrist, forcing the watch normally residing there higher but leaving her right hand free for such activities as drawing her PPK from its garter holster should the need arise.

Giving the bouncer a half-grin, the spy put an arm around his charge as if protecting her from the cold, whilst she maintained her impassive expression, cocking an eyebrow as the gaze lingered. Eventually the man seemed to nod approval and said something in Russian.

"Sorry, I uh, don't speak Russian." Jethro grinned again, this time adding a hint of embarrassment to cover the lie. Foreigners were not as rare in Moscow as they once were, but with the current administration's strict visa requirements they were still special, and it was another "pro" box to tick on the checklist.

The bouncer's eyebrows rose. "You are English?"

"Indeed; Charlie Forsythe, in Moscow on business. This is my niece, Vesper."

That was met with another approving nod. "Well Charlie Forsythe, in Moscow on business and Vesper... welcome to The Circus."

_Now wasn't there an ironic way to phrase it._

With that he stepped out of the road, turning to appraise the next person who had been waiting in the actual queue, and Jethro guided his girl into the warm, shoes clacking across dark, gold flecked marble floors. Cloaking their coats against a muted sonic background of thumping music, the fratello were ushered down an arched, red-roped passageway, the beat growing louder with each step until another club employee pulled aside heavy velvet drapes and the noise hit full force.

From the tunnel they set foot into another world; one of glitz and gold-leaf, plush finishes and ornate mouldings, picked out by bright, twinkling pin-pricks of light, with corseted and peacock-tailed waitresses moving nimbly between the patrons, picking up spent glasses. High above great swathes of fabric had been strung from walls to the centre of the roof, white sheets interspersed with reflective metallic weaves: lights playing behind them like trees over canvas and sparkling through faceted Swarovski lenses scattered amongst their folds. Nothing cheap, no half measures; it was a crass display of opulence in a time of looming famine, funded by the haves of Moscow and shining a beacon to its beautiful have-nots.

Halting, Jethro leaned down, shifting his girl in front of him to rest hands over her navel and his chin on a shoulder, and his tone was whimsical, "I always looked forward to the circus coming to Lytham as a kid; we'd run down to windmill green to help set up, elephants and what not... I don't remember there being this much alcohol though."

Twisting her head slightly, Monty allowed him to peck her on the lips before answering. "I'd be_ astonished_ if alcohol were the only vice being indulged here tonight."

"Probably; either way, lets have a drink."

The club entrance opened onto its second level, stretching as a wide balcony around two thirds of the space, populated by half-moon couches glowing in the twilight, before running up against a screen and two bouncers. Dodging around a uni-cycling waitress the Blackers kept straight ahead, making their way down wide stairs toward the lower level with its dance floor and bar. Skirting the gyrating press of bodies before the stage, the pair made deft passage to the counter, its male half shuffling his girl protectively in front of himself to peer over her head at the servers, silhouetted against up-lit spirit racks. Wrapping one arm around her, he used the other to hail a barman.

"Vesper martini, stirred and..." he glanced down.

"...a Negroni, on Tanq Ten," finished Monty, keeping with the English they had used since arrival.

"A what!?"

"A. Negroni!" Sighing the girl ran through the requirements of the drink, and with a nod the man turned away whist she kept a watch on his actions. Around her however, the young agent started to feel eyes turning and she forced herself to relax, instead looking up the line of patrons to catch an evaluating gaze and cocked an eyebrow.

Feeling the willowy form in his arms move, Jethro leaned down to again to her ear. "Get used to it luv. We're very definitely foreign here..." the man followed his girl's sight line along the bar-top, taking in the view, "...and frankly probably clothed a touch on the prudish side."

"Over dressed and under made-up as far as I can tell."

"Exactly, and it will make us stand out like the proverbials... which right now may actually prove advantageous."

Turning her back to the bar while her partner watched their drinks being mixed, Monty allowed him to step forward into her, running a hand down her spine whilst she took a better look at the club around his upper arm. Bar and dance-floor shared the same level, watched over by the stage with scattered standing tables, lit from within by a red and yellow glow, helping demarcate where the ravers ended and groups of drinkers began. On the far side of the space however, the floor stepped up onto a raised mezzanine, its rear half disappearing under the balcony above to create an intimate, warmly-lit and opulently furnished space in contrast to the storeys of clear air above the bar and sweating bodies weaving to thumping electronica.

While it seemed busy, and despite the massive queue to get in, at her guess the place could only have been about half full.

Of more interest was the balcony proper where, behind the two bouncers, it continued its curve to terminate almost above the stage. Along its lightly populated length were scattered couches and tables in sparkling gold and deep red hues, but the end flared out into a lounge area, screened by dark lace curtains from the rest of the floor.

From behind came a tap of glasses landing on marble, and she felt her partner shift a little to extract the eight hundred roubles required to pay for each drink, before backing off enough to allow her to retrieve her cocktail and retiring to one of the nearby stand-up positions. Putting his martini aside briefly, Jethro clasped hands around his cyborg's waist and lifted her bodily to sit on the glowing table top, struggling not to give away her extra weight, so they could talk nose to nose. Now he had the view of the club proper, and placing one hand each side of Monty leaned in, whilst beneath her the installation's red and yellow lights mingled lazily, like slow motion flames, picking out the ornate ironwork of its structure in sharp silhouette.

"I say we finish drinks here, then move to the dance floor."

That brought a flat expression from close up. "Is there any means by which to avoid part b?"

"I don't know; how intimate are you willing to get?"

"How intimate do I _need _to get to avoid the cesspool out there?"

"Touché," now Jethro stepped back a little to sip at his drink, "thoughts?"

The seated girl shifted position slightly, allowing her partner to step right up to her table's edge and lean in closer, one hand on a thigh whilst slender arms coiled around the back of his neck. "I would say the far end of the balcony is the VIP area and/or owner's suite. Not sure how to access it yet; there's a service entrance by the bar and what looks like another between the mezzanine and stage but..."

"...but I doubt sneaking in will do us any favours," finished her partner.

"Exactly; and of course we didn't manage to get an approach protocol out of Demirer either."

Now the elder spy sipped again at his drink and gave a teasing grin. "There was always that child sex charge..."

The look he received in reply was fit to freeze the hearts of stars.

"Not until we have exhausted _all _other options."

"No, besides..." Jethro leaned in again to plant a kiss on his girl's lips, "...I doubt 'smart girl' is high on Bezborodov's list of attractive qualities."

Breaking away briefly to peer around the side of her handler's head, hiding a slight blush in the process, Monty caught sight of two of the cold looking women whom had been waiting outside in the queue, now apparently finally allowed entry. Instead of heading for the bar however the pair stood in the middle of the tables, looking for something.

_Gold diggers then, probably searching for someone to buy drinks for the night's remainder._

To their credit both were attractive enough to make it work, and as the cyborg watched the pixie-haired blond said something to her friend, turning them toward the fratello, short sequined dresses glittering in the shifting light.

_At least the chances of them being armed like that were minimal._

Monty shot them a glare, something which stopped most people, but this time it had no effect and she was just able to squeeze her partner a warning before the two were on them, grabbing Jethro by the arms and dragging him toward the dance floor.

"You are English? We love English! Come, dance!"

The young agent slid from her perch about to give chase when a shake of her handler's head stopped her.

_Stay there, keep eyes on the club._

Pausing mid stride, the girl hesitated, then turned back to her table, leaning against it on her elbows and crossing her arms to conceal the wallet and passport she had lifted from Jethro's inside breast pocket as he was dragged away... just in case.

By now the man and his would-be kidnappers had disappeared into the swaying throng and Monty fought down her conditioned urge to head after them. Unfortunately the SWA doctors had not originally engineered their systems with her line of work in mind; her cause further frustrated by a not insignificant level of indignation.

The girl took another sip of her drink.

_It was a good thing Jethro knew how to take care of himself._

Other people were arriving now, only adding to her concern and on stage the DJ transitioned into another techno classic, sending more patrons that direction and she forced her attention back to the club.

As the hands of her watch ticked past the hour marker, movement up toward the VIP area caught her eye and she was just in time to see a suited woman, carrying a tablet, pass between the bouncers. Dressed like that she had to be staff; but reporting for _what_ precisely? Still watching her latest mark head toward the end lounge, the spy suddenly felt an unfamiliar hand sliding down her lower back and around, which was slapped away before it could reach the PPK holstered high on her inner thigh.

"I think lose him, come join _us._"

The voice was male and youthful, speaking broken English and the girl turned to find its owner standing close over her; a young Russian, handsome, his expensive shirt left unbuttoned halfway down his torso.

Monty however turned a cold gaze on her addressor, running an evaluating eye over him, expression leaving no doubt the view had been deemed less than impressive, before dropping into her own imperfect take on the local language. "He will be back."

A flash of surprise flicked across the youth's face, she would have put him in his late teens, but was quickly banished. He did however switch to his own native tongue. "Are you sure?"

"_Positive."_

"Ah, well how about in the meantime then?"

Behind him, at another table a small group of similarly attired youths, probably two males to every female, and none older than their early twenties, waved and beckoned. Her eyes flicked to what was being consumed: they had to have at least a couple of thousand quid worth of alcohol there. Rich kids enjoying a night on the town.

"See? We show you good time, proper welcome to Moscow!"

"_Nyet."_

"You will be missing out if you don't, with us you won't have to pay; and I can make it... worth your while."

"I doubt you can make my joining worthwhile." Monty kept her cold gaze locked with the Russian's, expression and tone communicating what her lack of words could not; but on the table her fingers wrapped around the stem of Jethro's barely touched martini. "I said 'no', now suggest not ask again lest am forced to _insist_."

"I would like to see you..."

"How about you leave her before _I_ am forced to insist."

Out of the girl's view the martini was lifted from her grasp and a familiar arm wrapped itself over her shoulders and across her chest, drawing her back against its owner's body.

_This one is _mine.

For a moment, silence reigned, and the youth glanced back toward his friends, before choosing humiliation over other potential consequences. With angry spit toward the floor, he about faced and beat his retreat.

"Take your time."

Jethro leaned down, sliding his arm lower around his partner's waist and placed his lips next to her ear. "Sorry luv, those two took a bit more effort to fob off on some other unfortunate than anticipated... though I see you're making friends with the locals anyway."

"Annoyingly."

Stepping around to face his girl, the handler once again deposited her on the table to resume their original positions and she slipped the wallet and passport back into his tuxedo.

"Thank you. Now, where were we?"

"Looking for ways into the VIP area... I would hazard a guess Bezborodov is actually present tonight; it looked like a floor manager or some such similar was reporting to the end lounge."

"So could we use that?"

"I was working on the question until _someone_ interrupted me."

More thumping music filled the gap in conversation, and Jethro leaned forward to kiss his partner again.

"Well if we can't come up with something shortly we may need to write this one off as recon and come back another night."

That drew another cocked eyebrow. "Because our timeframe was already so..."

This time it was Jethro's turn to issue a warning squeeze.

"Are you the two English?"

"_What of it?"_

The words had been cold, but the speaker apparently didn't notice. "Oh! Good! I am learning at school. Want someone practice."

Lifting Monty down, Jethro spun her around half a turn so she could see with whom she was conversing, and the eyebrow once again went up. The figure standing opposite could only have been six or seventeen on the outside, though it was difficult to tell under layers of makeup and cherry lips, and the SWA girl relaxed slightly. The rest was... well she was a good head taller than the cyborg and thin, too thin; borderline anorexic would have been another way to put it, the sort of thin that came from being starved. Blonde hair framed gaunt cheeks and clearly defined ribs were visible in the airspace beneath her dress; its single loop of metallic fabric running from her waist around the back of the neck before being collected again at her middle, held clear by prominent, spherical breasts. Someone had paid a substantial sum for those, and for the diamond-encrusted snake which slithering its sparkling golden way between them from her shoulders. More diamonds cascaded from each ear and a matching bangle completing the opulent set; the girl had to be wearing enough compressed carbon to finance a small revolution.

_This was somebody's plaything._

The other girl's finely sculpted eyebrows had also gone up. "ты прекрасна!... you are beautiful!"

Monty's return look however remained chilly, and she was about to reply when Jethro stepped in, giving a friendly grin. "She is, isn't she? How did you know we were British?"

"Spomenka said there is Eng... _British_ here tonight."

"And who is Spomenka?"

"Spomenka? She manager, come see Zinny every night about how club doing so I hear what say. Zinny let me hear everything," the girl beamed.

_Zinny?_ Out of the corner of her eye, Monty caught one of the bouncers standing close by, trying and failing to look inconspicuous... and in the back of her head something went click.

_Child sex charges huh._

"You know the club owner?"

"Yes!"

"Ha, that explains it then," Jethro was talking again, still wearing a friendly grin. "Well, I'm Charlie, and this is..."

"...Vesper. Who might you be?"

"Oh! I Raisa Savitskaya."

The SWA man held out a hand. "Well, it's a pleasure to meet you Raisa."

The girl beamed again and reached out to shake, giggling as she did so. "How formal!"

"Well, if you want to learn about British society you had best get used to it."

Taking the cue, Rasia offered her own bony hand to Monty, but as the two girls replicated the action the Russian glanced to the same bouncer her cybernetic counterpart had spotted, and leaned in with a conspiratorial air... ruined by another little giggle. "I sorry about Petrov, but Zinny not like me down by self. If you content, we back to owner lounge and talk?"

Releasing grips, the cyborg glanced up at her handler. "Yes, I think we would like that very much."

"Good! But, first wait little!"

With that the blonde girl bounded off toward the bar, pushing her way through waiting patrons and Monty watched, her expression deadpan. "I'm amazed she doesn't topple over."

"Well if she did she'd probably bounce..." Jethro gave his partner's arm a squeeze, "...but she's our ticket up there, so be nice."

By way of reply the girl pushed away from her partner, turning an unimpressed look on him.

Soon however Rasia returned, a gold magnum of champagne clutched one hand. "Alright! Now go!"

Following behind, the fratello were lead around the dance floor then back up the wide entry stairs. Instead of heading out the exit passage however the small party turned left, past the seemingly randomly scattered half-moon couches. Now on closer inspection those were revealed to carefully give the occupants of each some measure of privacy, and a few of those looked up as the group brushed past, more paying attention as they headed for the VIP area.

At the entrance Rasia breezed straight through whilst the bouncers gave both Blackers a hard look, but did not stop them as they were beckoned on. Half breeching the dividing curtain at the far end she shouted back to them, "Welcome to lounge!" before sliding through to become just a silhouette behind semi-transparent fabric.

Following, the two agents looked around. The end of the balcony was indeed a lounge, furnished in sumptuous carpet, gold and rich fabric, following the club's aesthetic of circus meets burlesque. Slouched amongst deep sofas was a slender man, probably in his late forties or early fifties; salt and pepper hair tied back into a low pony tail and clothed in a shimmering, satin bronze suit.

Rasia was already talking in her native tongue as the pair approached.

"...are Charlie and Vesper, the two British we were being told about. I thought it would be easier to chat up here," she beckoned them closer and swapped to English. "Charlie, Vesper, this Zinny."

At that the reclining man lifted himself from his seat, a flash of gold showing inside his suit jacket and Monty kept herself carefully relaxed, slipping up against her partner as the Russian stepped forward hand outstretched, a smile plastered across his face.

"I am Zinoviy Bezborodov, owner of Circus; welcome."

Nudging his girl forward a little, Jethro reached out to shake and took a deep mental breath. If Bezborodov was like most of the other Russians he had dealt with then he would not take well to one beating about the bush... so he may as well get to the point right now.

"I know who you are Mr. Bezborodov," said the handler seriously, dropping his own speech into Russian, "in fact Rasia's timing is quite fortuitous, as I was actually here tonight in the hopes of organising a meeting with you."

The arms middleman's expression and posture did not change, but the friendliness left his eyes. "Is that so? And what did you perhaps want to meet with me about?"

"A business proposal, I heard you were the man to see."

"Did you now..." the Russian's grip remained, "...there are procedures for that, how is it you know of me but not of the appropriate channels?"

"A man by the name of Demirer let it slip; at least that's what I know him as."

Now Zinoviy finally let go. "Demirer, Demirer... ah, Itri Demirer; not his real name... so he doesn't _trust _you."

"In my defence he was trying to steal trading routes out from underneath me at the time; it's a touch difficult to trust a man under those circumstances."

Now a little of the warmth crept back into the club owner's eyes. "True… true; what did you say your names were?"

"Charlie Forsythe, and this is my niece..."

From the couches and table behind came a loud pop and three heads turned to see Rasia giggling as the expensive Armand de Brignac bubbled over, cork bouncing away, and she took a swig from it before starting to pour three glasses.

"...Vesper," finished Jethro, now bringing the girl in question directly to the fore, and the Russian reached down to kiss the back of her hand.

"A rare beauty... I hope she's a little cheaper to maintain than _that_ one," he jerked his head toward the giggling teen behind. "How old?"

Jethro didn't miss a beat. "Eighteen."

"Of_ course_; the same age as Rasia," the words were neutral, but somewhere the other man's stance relaxed a little more. "Come."

Taking the lead Zinoviy headed back to where his blonde stood, and the fratello followed, stopping to collect their glasses and let their new associate sit first, plaything dropping down beside and cuddling up close. Standard of conduct set, the Blackers chose seats opposite, across a small glass table, Monty arranging herself slightly away from her partner but with legs tucked up and knees resting on his thigh within easy reach. Champagne flute in hand she set her face into its best bored expression.

Rasia started to talk in English. "So what think of..."

"_Quiet_, this is business now."

It was a sharp word, and the girl looked downhearted as her lover uttered it, but quickly recovered, taking another hearty swig from her golden magnum and cuddled in again.

_Just like a love-struck cyborg._

Monty took a sip of her own champagne, which was excellent, and settled in to watch proceedings; seemingly one didn't need brainwashing to elicit that type of response. Her eyes dropped to the table, sharp vision picking out flecks of white powder scattered across its surface.

_At least, not in the SWA sense._

Zinoviy was speaking again. "If you want to talk business Mr. Forsythe, there is one thing I ask: guns down, we are all friends here."

Matching actions with words he reached inside his shimmering jacket to extract a large Desert Eagle handgun, is plating having created the gold flash before, and placed it on the table. Following type, Jethro removed his own, well travelled SIG and set it down also. Juxtaposed against the larger firearm it seemed tiny, bluing worn and chipped from many adventures since it had first found its way into the holster of one fledgling Agent Blacker of Her Majesty's Secret Intelligence Service.

The middleman however smiled at its appearance. "A working man's gun."

"How did you know I was armed?"

"In this line of work, only the terminally stupid are not."

_So a test then. _

Beside her handler, Monty felt the PPK's cold form now clenched between her thighs; it could stay. There was no way Rasia could conceal a firearm about her person in the manner she was dressed, so it was doubtful her owner would expect the little Walther in its garter either.

Across the frosted glass table top, Bezborodov leaned back in his seat, hand snaking around the girl beside him to caress the taut skin of one over-stuffed breast, causing her to twitch uncomfortably before taking another gulp of champagne.

"One of my better investments," now Zinoviy looked directly at Jethro, "so what was your business proposal?"

The spy drew at his own drink before answering. "I need arms supply, genuine Russian weapons as well; not clones, and ammunition. I can supply transport and handle logistics."

"Any reason why it must be Russian? Not that I do not approve."

"Simple: Russian arms draw better margin, and of course letting it be known that you can supply that sort of thing is good for future business."

"And payment?"

"I would prefer lump sum on receipt of goods, but would be willing to negotiate some equitable split of profits as well," he took another sip of champagne, other hand massaging at Monty's stockinged thigh as he thought. "However, before agreeing to anything I would also like to see samples, and preferably where they are coming from. I need reliability as well as good product, and I need assurance that can be achieved."

That brought a chuckle. "You don't ask for much do you? Especially since it was _you_ came to _me_."

"Some people like to sell as much as they can all at once; _I_ like repeat business. That means not only being reliable, but also ensuring the client has the tools with which to keep himself upright and breathing. I was informed you could cater to that."

"'The client'... I like that," Bezborodov's hand didn't move, but he leaned forward, dragging Rasia with him. "I think we can talk. What were you looking for?"

"Small arms mostly: pistols, assault rifles, machine guns, sharp shooter gear... though I might also require heavier equipment down the track." Hopefully it was an order emulating that which had been making its way to Italy and Colombia.

There was silence for a moment, filled by the thumping music from below and yells of the crowd.

"I believe I have someone who can help with that; though if you want a look you may need to make a payment up front to show you're serious."

"They're reliable and long term?"

"Your friend Itri has been buying off them for the better part of a year now..."

Jethro's eyebrows rose, and the Russian smiled nastily.

"...if he wants to go blabbing about my business to you, I think it only fair I do the same: an eye for an eye as the Islamics say."

"Then define 'up front', there's only so much I'm willing to gamble... though I might be more inclined to show good faith should others return the favour."

Zinoviy started to open his mouth, but beside him Rasia stirred. "If you're going to be talking boring Zinny, can me and Vesper go downstairs?"

The voice was part adolescent whine, and the Russian glanced across to where Monty sat, then to Jethro, who gave a nod, before answering. "Yes, go."

"Yay! Come on Vesper, more drinks!"

Dumping her now empty magnum on the table the girl started for the lounge exit, and as she took off out of earshot the club owner leaned across the table to look hard at her counterpart.

"Make sure she stays out of trouble."

Catching her own partner's eye, the cyborg received a quick, quirked smile and jerk of the head after that bare retreating back. Standing however she found her hand restrained, and leaned down to receive her handler's long kiss, _"keep her out of trouble, it might do us some good down the track,"_ before being sent on her way with a gentle shove on the rear.

Behind, acute ears just caught, "they're very different girls..." before the conversation was engulfed in the clamour of the club. Spying Rasia aimed downstairs, she headed off in pursuit.

Unwilling to be seen running after her charge the cyborg limited her gait to a purposeful stride, catching the other just as she disappeared into the bar scrum, emerging a few moments later with two more normal sized bottles of champagne. Beckoning her newfound friend over to a table, the Russian teenager set both bottles on it, saying something quickly to the three male occupants with a lick of her lips and giggle, and Monty gave an internal groan.

_Well, wasn't this going to be fun_.

As she pulled up next to the blond, putting herself between parties, the second golden bottle was slid in front of her. "One for you, one for me!"

With a loud pop Rasia's beverage opened, its cork flying across the room pursued by foaming brut, and laughing again the girl gulped her new drink down, lowering the bottle with a satisfied "ahhh" directed at the table's other occupants. Then she turned to her female companion with a grin. "I so glad you here, Zinny not usually let down by self!"

With a quiet "phut" Monty's cork also came free in her hand, vapour wafting behind it.

"Go! Drink!"

Raising her own shining bottle the agent followed her charge's lead, lifting it up high but holding the bulk of its contents back, only allowing enough to dribble into her mouth to feign drinking. Finally she dropped the bottle and her Russian counterpart, apparently having decided to join in again, brought hers back down with another loud sigh of contentment.

"Now! We dancefloor!"

Placing her cork down on the table with a tap, Monty followed the bare back of her slightly unsteady 'friend' into the sweating, gyrating mass.

Suddenly she was in a different world, an unfamiliar world. Gone was the club's architecture of luxurious open spaces, replaced by closing walls of flesh. In their cloying depths the girl found herself jostled and pushed, trying to follow the bobbing, high-held golden bottle ahead as the crowd around her surged and moved to the beat, leaping and staggering, someone's foot sliding from the top of her boot. She winced at the thought of how long that was going to take to buff from the patent leather.

One opportunity did present itself however, and out of sight she emptied the bulk of her drink onto the already sticky stone.

_What a waste._

Now Raisa turned, hands and bottle still held high above her head as she joined in on the floor, apparently saved an embarrassment by the magic of double sided tape. Closing on her charge Monty suddenly found her view blocked by a male shape, turning to face Zinoviy's toy. That wasn't what she needed, but she had a job to do. It was a stupid job, but a job none the less and as the crowd swayed again the spy feigned a semi-drunken stagger, using her mass to push the man further off balance and shove him away before exploring hands could go to work.

Seeing her friend's stumble the Russian burst into hysterics and held her bottle aloft. "You must learn drink better! Start now! Cheers!"

Taking the cue, two bottles clinked together and were again upended, the blonde's suddenly overflowing out her mouth and she was forced to drop it with a splutter and laugh as expensive liquor ran down her chin and neck.

"Pah! And look what I do!"

Monty leaned forward to shout in her ear. "Zinoviy doesn't mind you drinking his club dry!?"

"No! He say help self!"

That was accompanied by yet another laugh and an unsteady twirl causing hanging golden fabric to sway about as Raisa took back up with the dancers and her companion tried to follow suit. The SWA girl however found herself struggling; there was no pattern to the movements, no linking steps, it was just flailing. Flailing with style perhaps, but nevertheless just flailing to a beat, the heavy, all absorbing beat and she attempted again to match what those around were doing. There was no elegance here though, no space to move her feet, nothing she could use to anchor her performance.

"ты прекрасна!... You terrible! How did you ever Charlie get like _that!?_ Look! Just move like… side to side, then arms!"

From the stage the music reached a crescendo and suddenly as a bubble bursting the bass line cut out, leaving just airy electronic top notes to float across the floor and the dancers responded, movements becoming fluid and cohesive, bodies edged by blue radiance from the lights above. This was more like it, this she might just have a chance at.

"See! Now better!"

Below the synthesised piano and buzzsaw a deep thudding started, low, felt rather than heard and began to build, and build, the seething mass of humanity's motions responding until all at once the original hectic racket exploded back into existence... and the too brief moment of respite was gone.

As the night wore on the music only became harder, bludgeoning its way through alcoholic and drug induced fuzz, Monty forced to fend off more frequent poorly judged advances from sweaty revellers in love with the world in general, or just one part or another in particular. Her cause was not helped by Raisa, seemingly happy to soak up the attention and exploring hands. More bottles of champagne appeared and the cyborg had just about managed to again dump half of hers when a familiar face loomed out of the crowd, ready to put arms around her charge. Reaching forward she pulled the blonde girl out of harm's way.

"I thought said not want to join!"

Her Russian was still sketchy, worse when shouted above the music, but it was enough to put her message across and the youth who had approached her at the table scowled.

"You said _you_ were not interested, you said nothing about _her_!"

"She not interested either!"

Now the inebriated girl lolled toward her rescuer. "Actually, he _is_ kind of hot."

Something must have broken through the noise as the subject of conversation leered. "See? She wants to stay! And besides, I don't think you're getting a say in the matter."

Suddenly other arms clamped around the cyborg from behind, pushing her own limbs down. The move had probably been intended to spring her grip from her charge, but her assailant found no such luck, and even less as a high-heeled boot came crashing down on his toes. Monty modulated the blow so as not to ruin a good set of boots by putting the heel through someone's foot, but her attacker, revealed to be one of the other kids from the inviting table as she turned, let out a yowl of pain and dropped his grip. Thrusting her still sloshing champagne into the other youth's chest to buy a second, the girl hauled her staggering burden from the crush, leaving the two boys just the golden bottle for their troubles.

Plucking the second bottle from Rasia's grasp she set it down on the table they had used to open first drinks on and continued upstairs back toward the VIP area.

"I don't want to go back! I want to go back to the floor!"

"I think you've had quite enough time there for now," growled Monty, reverting to her own native tongue; then in Russian, "besides, Zinoviy here."

That seemed to get the other to perk up a little, and she at least no longer requiring dragging as they passed between the bouncers. Arriving at the lounge both girls pushed through its curtain to find Jethro standing from his seat, and the men's heads turned as they entered.

"Good timing, I was just coming to find you."

Releasing her charge, his girl watched as the blonde staggered across the room, half sitting, half collapsing at the feet of her club owner.

"My apologies for her inebriated state."

Zinoviy only smiled, helping Rasia to clamber up onto his lap. "Do not worry, this is nothing unusual, but bouncers say you are doing a better job than most of keeping her away from trouble."

"Then 'most' couldn't be doing very well."

Now Jethro moved to put arms around his own girl. "Well Zinoviy, since I have just been saved mounting a search operation, I shall bid you adieu."

"Of course, I look forward to our next meeting. Four days yes?"

"Four days."

Waving a last goodbye the handler ushered her toward the exit, passing by the still glowing couches and along the passage toward the club's front door.

As cold air wafted their way, Monty moved closer to her partner to speak softly. "_Tell_ me you have a result and that wasn't for nought."

"I do, and will fill you in later."

"Good... now lets _never _do that again."

**TO BE CONTINUED...**


	13. CH13 The Spies Who Remained in the Cold

**AND THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction, based on works by Yu Aida._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter|13 – The Spies Who Remained in the Cold<strong>

Dark specks against a sea of white.

Crawling ants under frozen skies.

Beyond insulated glass, high level clouds rippled an otherwise flawless blue dome, catching low, cold winter morning sun through streaks of wispy ice, snow covered ground stretching out to meet it at the horizon. Below their ghostly trails, this lonely road wended its way along the southern edge of Siberia's vast arctic tundra, featureless expanse broken only by the occasional icicle encrusted tree. Stunted branches formed skeletal arms beneath pale coats, standing as the last bastions of thickly larch, pine and fir wooded taiga which had accompanied the Blackers for much of their nearly two thousand mile trek from Moscow. Now though, even those were finally succumbing to northern cold, handing over the reins to moss, lichen and other, much hardier cousins.

In her seat, Monty felt the Audi rock slightly as her handler pulled over against an edging snow bank and slowed their car to a stop, leaving the engine idle.

"This looks like it."

Peering briefly at her phone to confirm suspicions that, as for the last day and a half, it read "No Service", the girl instead reached for a more rugged looking GPS unit stashed in her door bin. Holding the button down to turn it on, she waited for the rubberised device to find a satellite fix.

Only one other object sullied the plain's empty existence, and Monty glanced out at the massive concrete hammer and sickle, silent by the side of the road; a monolithic monument to once mighty but long past powers. Now it stood abandoned, not left in place through some rose coloured nostalgia, nor a revived Soviet cool akin to that being discovered in Moscow's edgier clubs, but simply forgotten as the world moved on around it; along with other, more sinister remnants.

The GPS dinged, and she compared its readout against a note on her phone.

"It is."

Jethro shot her a small smile. "Fairly difficult to miss really."

"Doesn't hurt to check."

Now her partner eyed the vista through dark sunglasses. "I think we might just leave this ticking over; I don't particularly fancy powering tank heaters off battery."

"How cold _is_ it?"

The man glanced at his dashboard. "Forty-nine below freezing: Celsius. Feel like stepping outside?"

"Not overly."

"Me neither."

The cabin descended again into comfortable, companionable silence, leaving Monty alone with her thoughts, posterior and spine warmed by toasty Germanic leather. There was little left to be said, planning and problems having been visited and revisited in the days since leaving Zinovy and the drunken Rasia at Circus; spoken across the centre console, or in soft tones huddled beneath too-thin blankets of tiny rural hotel rooms. Those tidbits of information deemed possibly useful to Rome had been fed back, but otherwise Italy remained isolated from the loop, deniability secure and relieved of requests to send assistance. All that remained now was wait: not in anticipation or apprehension, but the calm knowledge that the wheels were in motion and what could be done had been done, leaving her to turn past decisions over and over, hunting for the chinks in their armour.

Those thoughts were interrupted as a hand rested on her thigh, and her partner offered a half smile. "Try not to over think it."

"Over thinking it is my job."

"Yes, and mine's to inform you when you're getting silly."

That was answered by a bemused expression.

Silence returned, but the hand remained, thumb massaging at wool-clad artificial flesh. Of course, had the SWA acted on _Anagnos Dragon_ then, reading between the lines, it may not have had warm bodies to spare anyway, certainly not to sit idle waiting for a call which may never arrive...

The massaging ceased. "Look lively, here comes company."

Reaching into the rear seat, Monty retrieved warm outer layers, settling a grey beaver lamb ushanka in place, flaps tied up out of the way, before wrapping a thick woollen scarf around her neck where it could seal into a collar. Mentally bracing herself she was out of the car, quickly shutting the door behind to trap heat in and shrugging on her heavy great coat over slate grey suiting, rapidly sealing it before pulling on warm gloves.

On the car's other flank a similarly attired Jethro waited, and she walked around to join him as two massive, black Mercedes GL SUVs trundled to a halt in the road beside the waiting fratello.

The first vehicle sidled past to take station slightly farther distant, but the second stopped as it drew level with the much smaller and lower Audi, occupants invisible behind dark privacy glass. For a moment nothing happened, then from the front passenger side jumped a man mountain, last seen guarding the Circus VIP area; this time toting a beanie and heavy, quilted parka. Paying the two spies little heed, he opened the rear passenger door; offering them a view of sumptuous warm woods, rose gold and individual black quilted leather seats. From one of those stepped Zinovy, leaving an empty compartment, which the bodyguard sealed behind his boss.

Looking around, the arms middleman stepped toward his waiting clients. "Mr. Forsythe, I see you have managed to find your way without succumbing to the Siberian winter; though I was expecting something more... luxurious."

Jethro let that hang for a heartbeat before answering.

"The Range Rover was hired I'm afraid," his words were said with a shrug. "Flash is fine for your part of the industry, but for my end being a touch more subtle tends to go a long way... and without wanting to sound rude, it's brass monkeys out here; so if we might cut the small talk and look to cracking on?"

"Of course... I forget you British do not know proper cold. We have probably another hundred kilometres to go, but..." he motioned to the hammer and sickle, "...this is the only landmark we can use. Is military base, so we will have to stop at the front to be cleared. It is no problem," now Zinovy eyed Monty, "though I am not sure how Vesper's presence will be accepted. If you had said you had nowhere to put her Charlie, she could have stayed with Rasia. I'm sure she would have enjoyed the company, and I would not have minded someone to keep mine from trouble."

"Why, how much trouble can she get into?"

"You would be _amazed_," the Russian grimaced at that. "My place in Moscow is large though, and Vesper would have been welcome to join her there. The girls can prove difficult to business: some do not like to talk freely in front of them... even if most of it goes over their head."

The last was delivered with eyes on the subject in question, returned with a raised eyebrow and wry tone. "I fear, Mister Bezborodov, you may have been allowed to form some ill conceived impressions of me..."

Reaching over, Jethro pulled his cyborg in front of him, resting a hand on each shoulder. "...Vesper is both my partner and companion, she's learning the business from me so her... _discretion_... with any sensitive issues discussed shall not be a concern."

"It is a good story, but is not her I am worried about... and I still do not know if my client will buy it." Then Zinovy shrugged, but dubiousness remained flickering behind his eyes, "still, we are here now... I hope she is a good actor. Follow us."

With that the Russian turned back to his Mercedes, attendant bodyguard still serving as doorman, to be concealed once more behind darkened glass.

Stripping off his coat again, Jethro settled into his driver's seat as the big SUVs started to roll away. Moments later, Monty slipped into her own position, removing gloves and ushanka in the process.

"Somehow I get the impression he rather less than believed us."

"He can believe, or not as the case may be, whatever he wants to..." allowing the two other cars of the convoy to gain some distance, her handler shifted the Audi into drive and released its handbrake, moving off smoothly in pursuit, "...just so long as he didn't send you home," now he glanced sideways at the girl with a sly look, "though I'm sure Rasia would be fun to spend a week or so with."

"Keep digging _Mister..._ it would make life a lot easier if he were more willing to deal with me on an even footing."

"It would, but you saw his relationship with what he views as your equivalent in the club: I fear your chances there may be slim."

"I'd say this confirms Rasia's words about hearing everything were just bluster though."

"That, or he doesn't credit her with maintaining enough braincells banging together to be cognisant of what's going on."

"He wouldn't be far off the mark."

"No, because if she did she would also realise her position wasn't tenable forever. Unfortunately for her I doubt she does, and once she's worn out he'll just go and find another..." his words paused for a moment, "...mayhaps we shouldn't have allowed you to be so smart in front of him."

"If that was smart I'm loath to see what stupid looks like."

"Hmm."

_But are we really any better?_

He glanced at the girl, now staring pensively from the window at frozen tundra passing outside. To be fair, she probably had more years left than Rasia did, but what then? People slipped in and out of his life without notice or care: friends, colleagues, family, lovers... he glanced again at Monty.

Ironic perhaps, that the most disposable girl he'd ever known, should also have become the least so.

Now she turned back to face him, pensive expression still in place. "At Circus, Zinovy seemed to be perfectly happy to talk business in my presence; now he's twitchy about the prospect. _Why?_"

There was a moments' pause.

"Could be he's not the one who's twitchy: middlemen like Zinovy exist for any number of reasons, one of which is to take the risk out for both sides. Remember Ebanovich?"

"Bahamas."

"Yes, he made a speciality out of keeping both parties in a deal ignorant of one another's identities."

"So possibly it's the supplier whom is nervous about meeting us, not Zinovy himself."

"Admittedly Ebanovich represented an extreme, but it's one explanation..." ahead another cloud of snow was being thrown skyward beyond that of the Russian SUVs. Slowing slightly, the handler pulled over against verging snow banks to clear the way, "...and that they wanted a deposit to even get a viewing out here suggests to me it could be a likely one: harder to betray someone once you've your own money wrapped up in the gambit."

As he spoke a short convoy of Ural six wheel drive trucks rumbled by on knobbly tyres, camouflage garbed soldiers inside looking down curiously upon the small estate joining them on their isolated route. In her seat, Monty watched the last grumbling brute recede behind. "That was what Demirer was loading in Odesa; same colour too come to think of it."

"Could be we're headed toward the right supply then."

Now it was the girl's turn to glace across at her partner. "You don't think Zinovy's concern could be over us meeting with his source do you?"

Disturbed snow beginning to clear from the air ahead, Jethro brought his Audi back up to cruise speed over permafrost ground before answering. "Could be... except that wouldn't directly explain getting uppity about your presence; besides of course just any general fallout tetchiness. In all reality though I don't think he personally would be too concerned."

"No risk for him of being removed from the loop then?"

"_We_ might try it for all he knows, but I'm not so certain about our opposite numbers; whomever they happen to be. Yes they could probably deal directly with us and up their own profits. However, Bezborodov likely brings in a fair chunk of business, especially if they're isolated out here, and if they're smart enough to realise it they'll know hurting him will hurt them also in the long run. Not only that, but word would get around and others may not wish to source from them either. Half the world is middlemen; it pays to keep them onside." Now the Brit turned to his girl and shot her a grin. "Besides, you've read Zinovy's list of charges, seen how he conducts himself, does he strike you as a man whom envisages life as not going his way?"

"Probably not... returning us back to theory 'a', which I presume means we'll be watched like hawks."

"More than likely, so drop enough hints to hold Zinovy in his comfort zone, but otherwise lets see to belaying anyone else's fears... and keep your guard up."

That earned him an unimpressed look. "...because if they're nervous it would be easy to do something... _rash_."

"Or we could be walking into a trap."

"You have such a knack for brightening my mornings."

The roughly cut road began to edge south, back toward wooded taiga, and on either flank of its frosted pavements more stunted trees started to appear, locked in white stasis to await the return of spring. From them, long shadows painted the road in zebra stripes, flashing across speeding vehicles as a welcome sense of progress after so many featureless miles.

Amongst more cluttered horizons and obscuring clouds of ice thrown up by the cars ahead, it took a moment longer for Monty's sharp eyes to pick out distant structures starting to roll into sight. Spindly towers were first to reveal themselves between icicle laden branches, marching away left and right to split land from sky, but as the widely spaced convoy drew nearer, more solid constructions began to climb above wire topped concrete walls.

To the right of what presumably formed the main entrance, blocky grey buildings overlooked Siberian no-man's land, square windows dark maws under clear sunlight. To their left squatted hulking warehouses, disappearing back into the complex; God only knew how far.

Between those and the fratello however stood a guard post and gates, the flimsy wooden booms backed by a solid concrete mass raised high above the roadway, poised to fall as a modern-day portcullis; the faded ghost of a hastily removed hammer and sickle still visible against its weathered face.

To one side a tank gate guardian silently rusted on its monolithic plinth, two unfortunates clearing snow from treads and armour with wide shovels. Halting at the barrel tip, Zinovy's second car allowed the middleman's own vehicle to take the lead and approach human sentries first. Slowing gently on the icy road, Jethro pulled up beside the waiting Mercedes.

"I assume we'll get a signal of some description."

From her seat, Monty studied what lay in sight as best she could. Worn precast panels of the wall's lower half blocked any view inside, small snow drifts built up against their toe, but scattered trees had been cleared back, leaving an easy patrol route and wide field of vision for broadly spaced towers along its length.

"At a guess less than half those towers are manned. They've cleared back enough to avoid blind spots on this side of the fence, but anyone up there would be struggling to pick out much detail on the longer ranges."

Her partner had leaned forward against his own seat belts, hands crossed over the steering wheel, peering at the two closer lookouts on either side of the portcullis. Below, a camouflaged guard was talking through the lead Mercedes' rear window, a second standing back, outside their small security hut, loaded rifle resting in both hands across his body. "Only one of the gate towers is occupied as well. If I were a wagering sort, I would say they were short numbers."

"It all looks pretty spread out."

"Well the Russians have more space than they know what to do with... so why not?"

"And leave an under-strength garrison?"

"Big it may be, but big isn't always the same as important... and it would be easier to run weapons out of a less scrutinised facility."

Up by the gate the solider next to Zinovy's car stepped back to utter something into his radio. A minute later the booms went up, allowing passage of a tall, boxy, military 4x4 which flashed its lights in a "follow me" signal, before turning back into the base. At that their lead SUV started back underway, and the guard turned to wave the civilian convoy's remaining contingent on, Bezborodov's second vehicle falling in behind the Blackers' estate as they passed under precariously suspended concrete, wedged between well greased rails.

Then its shadow was gone, and before the fratello spread the true expanse of whatever facility they had arrived at.

To the left were parked Ural trucks in seemingly endless rows, nose to tail and side by side, whilst beyond, massive warehouses marched away into the distance. Opposite the nearer of those, across the road on which they now drove, stood the square blocks Monty had spied on approach, presumably barracks and administration... but even they eventually succumbed to more, uniformly grey, storage sheds.

A squat, solid building lay just behind the wall, but the cars' escort rolled past, instead pulling in between the next construction's encircling wings; four storey facade in better repair than what little of the rest of the base lay visible. At its entrance stood a flagpole bearing Russian Federation colours at its tip, presiding over the cracked asphalt of a small parade ground.

Jumping from his vehicle, one of the soldiers waved his charges to park against the building, driver halting behind the row of civilian cars, setting his camouflaged 4x4 as a rudimentary wind break. Replacing her ushanka and scarf, Monty waited until Zinovy alighted from his SUV, before climbing out of the Audi and throwing on her coat for the short trip inside.

Pressing hands behind hips, the girl arched back to work out the journey's kinks and give herself a chance to look around. On second glance, across the main roadway were not just vehicle yards and warehouses. Separating rows of trucks from the latter stood a lower set structure of indeterminate use; single storey concrete front facing onto the parade ground, with a taller mass connected in behind. Relaxing again, she felt a touch on the nape of her neck as her handler lead on toward the main building, under the watchful eye of their vehicle guards.

A low flight of stairs ran up under its portico, through a double doored entrance, and inside to where they were met by a Junior Lieutenant, clad in grey Russian Ground Forces winter garb. Waiting patiently for his guests to strip off warm outer layers, the young man waved silently for their party to follow up wide stairs.

Trailing behind their guide, Zinovy leaned over to speak quietly in Jethro's ear. "They are not certain about Vesper, but are willing to accept her; for now."

"I said she would be fine, I don't keep her just because she's pretty."

Now the Russian's eyes ran up and down the girl in question's dark grey suit. "At least she looks the part; but you can put a pig in a tutu as well, though that does not make it a ballerina."

On the far side of her handler, Monty bit her tongue.

The hand-me-down walls did not wear their patina of years so gracefully as the Social Welfare Agency's centuries old home, and as they ascended Jethro felt where painted railings had been worn back to cold, bare steel, polished smooth by thousands of palms over decades of use. Chips or cracks in the plaster and concrete however had been patched, keeping drafts at bay, and as he ran fingers above a radiator warm, if not hot, air licked up around them. Whoever was running the operation was doing so on a budget, but seemed to be keeping the worst rot in check; even if some of the less important Cyrillic signs were no longer legible, scattered between framed and faded posters and photographs.

Reaching the top floor, their guide waited for all to be present in the corridor then motioned for his charges to remain; before straightening his uniform and knocking smartly on a solid timber door. A moment, then from inside a muffled shout as reply, and the young officer made his entrance, saluting to some out of sight superior before sealing the room again behind him.

From inside wavered the tones of muted conversation, blunted by thick concrete and wood to a level below what even Monty's sensitive hearing could capably discern. Left alone for a minute however her partner laid a hand on his cyborg's shoulder, massaging gently, and looked over at their Russian acquaintance.

"So, who is it we are actually meeting?"

Zinovy however made his own silent entreaty to pipe down, apparently also straining to hear what occurred behind closed doors. "Let me do all the introductions at once."

Shortly the office was opened again, and the group ushered inside by their junior minder. As they stepped over its threshold, a change came over Bezborodov and he threw his arms wide.

"Dmitri! Как поживаешь?"

"Борьба в форме! Как я мог бы взять на царям России!" The words were rattled off fast, too fast for translation, and from behind a steel desk, backdropped by windows facing directly across the flagpole tip, emerged a bear of a man also wearing Ground Forces' winter greys. Walking over he enveloped the middleman in a crushing embrace, now speaking slower. "That was quite the show you put on last time I was in Moscow! I hope you will stay long enough for me to do some little to return the favour."

Finally released, the go-between turned to his two potential clients, dropping back to English, as the young lieutenant followed inside and sealed the office once more. "This is _Polkóvnik_ Dmitri Nabokov, base commander. Dmitri, these are Charlie Forsythe and Vesper Fleming."

Jethro was about to open his mouth to greet the Colonel, but found his words steamrolled as a massive paw reached out to pump his hand up and down in welcome. "It is a pleasure to meet you Mr. Forsythe, Ms. Fleming! Zinovy was my _zampolit_ at the collapse. We were both only very junior then, but when told to _survive_ by..."

Nabokov talked on, moving to subject Monty to a similar performance as that endured by her partner, and the elder spy watched carefully. His actions were friendly, enthusiastic even, but there was a wariness behind bright eyes, and the one-sided prattle cascaded just a little too fast to be that of someone completely at ease; or at least trying to avoid needing to make an actual response until the situation was fully assessed.

"...but we get through together, so anyone ok by him, ok by me!"

Snatching the break in conversation whilst he could, Zinovy looked at Jethro, catching his friend's eye on the way. "I did some checking up on you in the last few days Charlie..."

"Well I hope what you found was good."

"Enough not to cancel... but running weapons to militias and rebels is a far cry from fine art to Moscow and New York."

Finding one of the office's two worn vinyl sofas, they SWA man took a seat, Monty perching herself on the arm beside him, and favoured the room with a lackadaisical grin. "A little, but the needs of the world change and we must adapt with them; as an ex-political officer I'm sure you, Zinovy, would be more aware of that than any of us..."

That brought a little nod.

"...Besides, you would be amazed how often those looking for art and those looking for weapons mix in the same circles."

At that however the club owner looked pensive, settling into the other sofa. "Perhaps not, I have had a few clients prefer to pay large expenses with material items..."

"Nice thing about paying in art, particularly black market art, is that it all tends to remain neatly below board."

"...and so in this age of electronic transfers and numbered accounts we return to the tried and true barter system."

Now Dmitri let out a laugh. "I hope you not intending to pay _us_ in art, Mr. Forsythe? As you see, I have little use for it."

From his seat the spy ran eyes over scarred office walls, covered in a detritus of memorabilia and photographs: mostly groups of people with a tank here, an aircraft there, some decorated with the star of the Red Army.

"Oh I don't know, I might have _some_ Russian Constructivists floating in the wings..." a look of dismay washed across the base commander's face, "...but fear not, it wasn't my intention to do so."

At that, relief reasserted itself to the big man's features, now perched against his desk, arms folded. "Zinovy say you looking to buy small arms? Yes?"

Jethro nodded. "That's correct, probably older style weapons to begin with, then a push to newer models should circumstances allow..."

"...though a rough idea of what you might offer could help us get proactive with client needs and secure further business," finished Monty for him.

That drew a quick glance toward Zinovy, and in that same instant Jethro also caught his girl's eye to give a small shake of the head: _don't push too hard_. Then the officer's attention was back on them. "Well how about we have tour of base, show you what here, then we take from there?"

"Sounds good to me."

"Excellent..." Dmitri looked toward the back of the room, "Ilkun, bring a car around!"

"Yes sir."

With that the young man ducked out, and his superior turned to retrieve a heavy, grey, double breasted trench coat; braided cording hung from beneath one epaulette mimicking gold buttons, topped by a lighter grey fur collar. Throwing it loosely on the _Polkóvnik_ retrieved a matching ushanka and motioned toward the door.

"Quickly now, or I shall boil in here."

Their own belongings in hand, the Blackers allowed themselves to be ushered from the office, pausing briefly for their host to lock it, before traipsing back to ground level, scarves and headgear being donned as they went. Reaching the building's lobby, Monty slipped on her great coat, whilst the Russian soldier watched enviously.

"Good issue, I wish we still had. These..." he picked at his own garment, "...they are pretty, but not warm enough for Siberia. Russia used to know how to deal with cold, not seemingly anymore."

As he said it another boxy vehicle, the same as that which had escorted the civilian convoy onto base, pulled up outside beside its twin, still standing guard over the German manufactured cars. Directed to a single rear door, the group of four mounted up into sideways facing jump seats behind Ilkun at the wheel. Closing the hatch snug, Dmitri squeezed past to sit closest his subordinate, opposite Jethro, patting the roof as he went.

"We can get limited number of GAZ Tigrs should you want; they are new though, so a little more difficult to hide in paperwork. Good in all conditions."

With that he leaned over the driver's seat back to speak with his junior in low tones. Positioned on her partner's farther side, Monty could barely discern the words, and in Russian the bulk of that she did catch eluded her efforts to understand.

As his boss finished, the young officer shoved the Tigr into gear before pulling away with a diesel rumble. Whilst he took a tight turn around the flagpole and other vehicle, Nabokov gestured out its windscreen to the administration block's facing buildings.

"We are a logistics base, mostly long term storage not deployment, which makes easier to... _lose_... items. Over the other side have vehicle yard, small arms and some limited workshop capability, will visit those on way back. Days are short here now though, so first take a look at rest whilst is still light." Ilkun now had them on the main road, headed away from the gate, "Behind you mess hall; enlisted, officers and a room for functions in same building, and next to barracks."

Devoid of a seatbelt Monty twisted to see what was being discussed. Beside the administration complex stood a long, single storey building stretching away from the asphalt, which had to be the mess. Beyond that, four storey barracks stood three abreast, set parallel to the road alignment, bookended by the hall and first warehouse headed into the base. Something about those caught her eye and she looked harder: the two closest accommodation blocks were in good repair, worn perhaps but obviously maintained. The furthest however had its windows boarded up, facade showing signs of long neglect; seemingly this base was indeed undermanned, and had been for some time.

Dmitri was still talking, "I recommend you remember where mess hall is. Zinovy here does not visit much anymore, and it is a long drive back, so have something planned before he leave, some of old guard... I make room for two more if all go well."

Outside more warehouses slid by, before abruptly their rows ended, giving way to open space, rolling lumps of earthen bunkers foregrounding a tank farm's squat cylinders, just poking above un-removed snow on its far edge.

The _Polkóvnik_ grinned. "We also have airlift capability. Runway is long enough for fully loaded Ilyushin or Antonov. However, if setting up a regular run I do not recommend; regular flights are too difficult to cover up and hide, particularly as not all on base are aware of our... business. For big, one off loads however is perfect, and flight in can be masked; easier in winter months when road perhaps blocked. Use Russian plane though if can."

Not stopping, Ilkun took the party directly across the runway, past another stolidly shovelling work party, whilst Nabokov continued, "Most of more hazardous or larger munitions kept in dispersed bunkers on the other side of airstrip, as are fuel farm and generators."

At that Monty cocked an eyebrow. "Larger munitions?"

"You will see soon Ms. Vesper."

At that she returned to peering out the windscreen, ducking down slightly to clear her sightline as their destination drew closer. The fuel farm and generator were probably too distant to utilise should the need arise, a fact applicable to most of the base beyond the landing strip. She squinted through snow glare from behind dark sunglasses: the fence around the base's backside however lacked its front wall's concrete lower section, instead consisting merely of chain wire top to tail. Probably sensible, taken as a cost exercise, to only block off vision on the line which people were most likely to approach from, and simple wire remained perfectly effective elsewhere on the planet; particularly with the ubiquitous manned towers to ensure no-one cut it.

Now they were closing on one of the bunkers, and she was able to better study it: earth and snow entombed, with the appearance of a large burial mound on three sides, the fourth sporting a concrete apron and retaining wall to give the structure form. No external security visible; but in the wall was cut a large roller door, and it was in front of that the Tigr came to rest.

The halt left only a short walk, and their driver had the entrance open before it was completed, allowing fast access to an artificial cave beyond. Inside, long, grey cylinders, each a good twenty feet end-to-end if she were any judge, were stacked in racks; slots in their sides and stubby appendages on tapered tails.

"Kh-55 cruise missiles!" announced Dmitri with an edge of pride from behind the fratello. "Each has conventional warhead fitted and is good for one thousand, three hundred nautical miles."

Now, beside Monty, Jethro turned to the man. "These are air-launched are they not?"

"Da."

"Somehow I fear that may be a little beyond our clients' current capability."

"Perhaps, perhaps," now the commander's grin turned feral, "but get in right place, those warheads can make big mess all on their own."

"I think perhaps we should move on."

Being ushered out again, the cyborg took one last look behind herself as the lights were doused. Full racks: Zinovy couldn't be moving a great many of those... though their availability was probably worth flicking on in her next report anyway.

Sealing their GAZ fast again, the _Polkóvnik_ returned to his seat, twisting to make another motion around the area. "Of course, if wanting same bang as the Kh-55 without missile cost we have artillery rounds too."

Now Jethro looked across at his Russian counterpart. "What else do you have stashed away out here?"

"On this side of the airfield? Anti-tank systems, man portable or not; Strela-3 and Igla-S anti-air systems... Igla is more capable but more expensive. If looking for an advantage in the third world I recommend Strela-3. Is a good choice as upgrades Strela-2, but maintains similar controls so the same monkeys can use without retraining."

"That might be worth pitching. I would like to take a look at those while we're here, and RPGs if you have them."

"RPGs with small arms, so will stop at Strela first."

The bunkers in question took their tour closer toward the fuel farm fence line, and instead of returning across snow-covered runways, Ilkun chose an easy run down boundary tracks into the back of the warehouse area. Threading through neat, seemingly endless rows of mothballed vehicles stored there, he made it to the massive constructions' rear doors, ushering his charges in via a smaller personnel entrance beside high, rolling panels. Trailing behind to enter last, Dmitri walked the Blackers through his catalogue of machine guns and sniper rifles, new and old, before herding them another building toward the main gate, placed directly opposite the barracks.

Inside thick, blast resistant concrete walls the commander spoke quickly to a saluting sergeant, whom nodded before turning to fetch an iron crowbar. Journeying deeper between towering racks, that the officer used to lever open a flat wooden crate whilst, perched on overhead gantries, other warehouse personnel looked surreptitiously on.

Reaching inside he extracted two small spheres with pineapple bottoms and topped by tall, white plastic caps, each sporting a pin to retain flat metal levers.

"RGO grenades, still current: timed or impact fuse, effective out to one hundred metres and guaranteed lethal inside twenty. I keep ready so can have on short notice... just make sure to tell anyone using duck before they are landing."

Weighing the deadly little orb in her hand, Monty felt its textured surface, running a thumb along the equatorial seam between rough and smooth before giving it a few experimental flicks into the air. With a bit of effort she could probably put herself outside its effective radius; though accuracy that far out would probably be a different story.

Taking his merchandise back, Dmitri returned both explosives to their crate and lifted the top loosely back in place as, to the side, Zinovy glanced at his watch.

"Am I boring you Comrade _zampolit_?"

The middleman started at the jibe. "Expecting a phone call."

Out of view, Monty shot her partner a quick look, and he shrugged before giving her shoulder an encouraging squeeze in return: it could be anything, but stay watchful.

_Trust your gut._

Now they were again moved on, stopping to inspect racks of RPGs, before being shepherded once more outside through another personnel door and along to the next block, directly opposite the mess hall: the final storage facility in line before reaching workshop walls. Above its entrance was mounted a metal bracket, hanging empty and, scanning weathered concrete, the girl checked this building over too for signs of cameras or sensors.

Finding nothing she gestured to the rusting bit of steel. "Your security seems a little light on."

Following her gesture, the base commander shrugged. "We try, but nothing survives the winter."

That apparently was all she was going to get on the subject; though security must have been maintained by some means. Isolation probably helped, but if they were forced to run watches on all buildings day and night, it would go some way to explaining the dearth of guards on perimeter towers.

Still wielding his crowbar in one paw, Dmitri led his guests between two rows of crates to where one, near floor level, rested with its lid already askew. Leaning the iron shaft up against another towering stack of boxes, the big Russian knelt down to hoist the top from this latest chest.

"Now these probably closer to what were originally expecting to find."

Inside, set neatly into wooden rails, lay a row of Kalashnikov rifles, black stocks folded sideways for transport. Extracting one, Nabokov snapped the stock into place and handed it over to Jethro.

"AK-74M, brand new. Can supply as many as need with magazines, ammunition and full kit for every solider to maintain his rifle."

Hefting the gun to his shoulder, the spy peered down its sights, feeling the weight before pointing it away to dry fire once. Lowering the weapon again he looked over at their hosts.

"Very nice, but the people I am selling to were keen to stick with the AKM."

"If ammunition issues..."

"More familiarity than anything I would say."

The Russian shrugged, "We will get to AKM, though if want Russian equipment in good condition, I say try to convert them over."

Reclaiming his merchandise to replace it with its brethren, Dmitri moved farther along the row, where were produced a set of Makarov pistols for perusal, as well as their official Yarygina replacements. Monty was this time apparently allowed one of the older weapons, and made a small show of checking it over, trying the action once before it also was taken away again.

Her handler having uttered one or two more appropriately appreciative comments, the party moved on; back through towering rows of crates, following their ill-lit and cluttered canyons toward the building rear. All the warehouses so far had lacked for lighting, an issue not aided by tight-packed interiors, but where they went now proved itself particularly dire, occasional bulbs having been left blown and dust starting to build up on level surfaces atop olive-drab drop sheets.

"We try... discourage... anyone coming back here," put in the _Polkóvnik_, stopping to lift another canvas sheet from its resting place, careful not to disturb the furry carpet of time settled upon it.

Lid removed from the crate below and set aside, he reached in to lift a mint condition AKM assault rifle from its depths, glints of gun oil still visible on the weapon's body. "Old manufacture, lost and forgotten years ago, so never been fired; sold as is or we have workshop. For extra each checked and reconditioned before shipment."

"Magazines and ammunition?"

"Magazines we can do, ammunition... we have it, but is limited."

From where Bezborodov had been hanging behind emanated a buzzing hum, and excusing himself the middleman hurried off down the row of wooden boxes, extracting a satellite phone from one inside pocket. Standing a little away as her handler and their host continued discussions, Monty strained her hearing for what the club owner was saying as he stood, back to the rest of the group, a finger blocking his unoccupied ear. Unfortunately the combination of distance, low volume and unfamiliar language thwarted that effort, but the man's voice hardened as his conversation continued.

Finally the phone dropped and he stabbed at its keypad viciously, ending the call. Glowering at the bearer of seemingly bad news in one palm for a moment, Zinovy turned back towards his companions; face once again under control. In the half-light even the cyborg's sharp vision failed to pick anything unusual about his expression; but something was definitely wrong.

His return was marked by a break in the stream of words between Jethro and Dmitri, and the Muscovite took that opportunity to push in. "How about we leave you to think for a minute? It might help make up your mind."

The spy glanced at his partner, who shrugged, then joined his opposite number in nodding acquiescence. "Give us five minutes then?"

"Of course."

With that the two Russians walked clear, and Jethro settled himself onto the Kalashnikov crate, rifle still in hand to come eye to eye with his girl.

"So what do you think?"

Her reply was low. "I think Zinovy just received a phone call he did not much care for."

"I was busy with the _Polkóvnik_, fill me in."

"He said he was expecting a call, I don't know if this was it," explained Monty, leaning in closer to her handler, feigning inspection of something on the AKM, "but he didn't like the way it went... he had himself reined in again after, but it worries me he seemed to want to talk to his mate so quickly."

"Don't think it was just Rasia playing up?"

That earned a flat look and cocked eyebrow. "I doubt he would drag Dmitri away just to consult on girl troubles."

Jethro gave her a tight smile. "Concur... and the arms so far?"

"Their Makarovs seem to be in good nick and similar condition to what we saw on the way to Colombia, also these AKs... I can't comment much on anything else, but would be relatively comfortable in saying this was the place."

"Glad we agree. I'm not certain how long our welcome here extends for, but we might look to scarpering soon as we can make it dignified. Best beat a retreat for now and figure out what we intend to do... though I'm leaning toward suggesting a larger team be used to deal with it, at least in part."

At the row's other extremity, the two Russians turned from where they had been holding their own conversation. Seemingly five minutes was up.

"So, what do you think?"

Jethro looked over at the approaching men. "We think it sounds like a good proposition."

"Excellent," Dmitri glanced at his front man before continuing, "what say we finish tour with workshop then back to office to discuss... it would be warmer."

"I can live with that."

At those words the officer lifted his AKM back again to replace it in its crate, before returning the row to how it had been found. "I go tell Ilkun to take car, we can walk from workshop easy enough."

With that he was gone, leaving the Blackers alone in Zinovy's care and, from beside her partner, Monty watched broad, retreating shoulders: not that she didn't appreciate the sentiment, but that had been quite fast. Her handler could get a better read, but unless she was very much mistaken, whatever had wound up Zinovy had also wound up the _Polkóvnik_.

Rubbing hands together in an effort to warm them, the girl returned her ear to small talk being made next to her. That was odd too, or perhaps the Russian middleman was waiting to let what had been seen and said distil in his client's mind before pushing for a deal.

Shortly from outside there sounded the agricultural rattle of a military diesel firing, note reverberating off cold, hard walls as it receded, and their host returned to usher the party onwards through another side door.

Beyond it, the low sun was starting to fade again from another short, sub-arctic day, and few words passed through freezing air until a second door clanged shut behind them.

While protected from wind and snow, the workshop interior was only mildly warmer than the warehouse left behind, vaulted roof spanning above an array of vehicles scattered across its floor in varying states of disassembly. Here and there a heavily jacketed soldier worked on some piece of machinery or another, often in the company of a plug-in bar heater to loosen metal parts, unfreeze vital engine fluids and prevent his hands from going numb.

Turning left, back towards the main access road, Nabokov gestured around the space, ending at a tall concrete wall which butted up against tin roofing at that end. "We service vehicles and do pass-out inspection back here; front of building is deal with smaller equipment."

Now Monty studied the dividing wall closer. Set out from its concrete surface ran grated stairs, leading to a second floor catwalk with windows and doors facing in from the room beyond. At its base was housed a steel roller shutter, large enough to admit access to a decent size vehicle and a personnel door beside it. Being aimed at the latter, the Blackers were taken through to a lower ceilinged workshop.

"This is where deal with more finer equipment."

It was warmer in here, warm enough that the girl made to strip off her coat, taking the moment to survey her surrounds as she did so. There were no stairs; seemingly if one wished to access the upper storey it would require climbing those in the vehicle shop. Instead the layout made the most of its available floor area, dividing it up with wood and steel work benches into rudimentary partitions between stout support pillars, each sporting bright fluorescent lights to contrast the dim warehouses so recently departed. In one far bay rested a half assembled engine; in another, a green nosed, grey bodied Kh-55, nestled on its transport dolly, wings extended and service panels open, a camouflage clad technician bent over it.

Other benches were backed by crates of weapons, their contents being one at a time passed across wood surfaces; accompanied by refurbishment kits, screwdrivers, ratchets, or work manuals. Another station carried ancient aircraft radio gear, surrounded by a grid of neatly arranged wires and vacuum tubes, Monty's sharp vision picking out the latter as some of the same components she had acquired in Turkey. Not the newest wireless set ever, but tough and reliable; and not everyone could afford or even wanted the latest and ostensibly greatest technology.

As she watched, the man working there stood up from his seat, stretched, and walked to a store room set against the right hand wall, opening its door to give a glimpse of shelves and a barred window.

"Here we can recondition those older AKMs if request..." Dmitri was talking again, "...remove serial number or make specific modification if require. Of course..." he gestured at the missile, "...can also break equipment down for easier transport and concealment."

"And if you break multiple items down," that was Jethro, "do you have some way by which to track what part goes with what? I imagine AKM parts look pretty similar from one gun to the next."

The Russian officer shrugged. "Any part should work with any other gun; but if want parts tagged, or need assembly instructions for those on other end, it can be done."

"At what sort of expense?"

"Depends on what work is and how many units bought... obviously coming up with a 'how to' guide for cruise missile is more cost than listing components for AK-74," he gave a laugh, "and of course, depends on how idiot resistant it needs to be... Come, if we are going to have this sort of conversation, let us have in private."

Getting underway again toward the front of the building, the British handler pointed upward. "What's the floor above?"

"More storage, some office."

A long anteroom separated workshops from the building's facade, filled with lockers and hung jackets between widely spaced windows, their glass displaying little more than reflected interior lights. Pausing, the small group took its opportunity to re-don coats in preparation for what lay ahead.

Traipsing out a graciously held front door, the fratello was treated to wide views across the parade ground, enough to distract momentarily from a fresh dose of biting cold. On its far extremity the flag of Russia remained raised, illuminated from below by powerful floodlights and backed by the administration building; warm under incandescent lamps to stand out against a purple twilight sky.

It was another quick and silent trip across unprotected asphalt, all parties intent on regaining some sheltered warmth as quickly as possible, Nabokov leading with Zinovy bringing up the rear.

There was the briefest of halts inside the office block's front doors to remove again thick, protective clothing, the two Russians quickest as Jethro dawdled slightly, helping his girl first to watch their reactions: edgy, as if waiting for something. Right now thought there was no way to make an exit without raising any more potential suspicion, so in the same formation he allowed himself and his partner to be escorted for the short climb to the base commander's office.

Once inside its owner gestured to one of the two couches, his former Soviet comrade closing the door behind them. "Can I offer you drink now?"

"I think I could handle something to warm the bones... Vesper?"

Monty nodded her assent, and the burly Russian moved to a low steel sideboard, set along one wall of the room, starting to flip tumblers upright.

"So, did you have any question?"

Jethro nodded. "One or two..."

Before he could continue however, Zinovy cut across him. "Good, because so do we..."

And suddenly there were soldiers, rifles trained on the fratello, entering through the only door to the outside world.

"...let us start with Genoa."

* * *

><p>Handler and cyborg froze, halfway from their seats, and Monty's fingers tightened on the sofa's arm. No way out, not without a four storey drop or walking through a squad of armed soldiers; neither of which was a game she wanted or could afford to play right now, certainly not if there was any chance of word getting around.<p>

_They'd walked straight into it._

Jethro however recovered quickly, and set his face into a look of confused anger. "What the blazes am I supposed to know about _Genoa_? Apart, perhaps, that it makes a pretty dire spot for a seaside holiday?"

That did not receive a reply. Instead two more soldiers stepped forward to thrust both fratello members to standing and start patting each down under the cover of their comrades' rifles. Beside her partner Monty felt rough hands slide over her, and she caught Zinovy's twitch as they relieved her of not only wallet and phone, but also her knife, lock picks and the PPK stored in its shoulder holster. She had been correct in the club: he did not expect her to be armed, and his eyes followed the little pistol as it was laid with a tap on the base commander's desk, along with a spare magazine, carried opposite, and short tube of conditioning pills.

Suitably stripped of personal effects, the girl was thrust back down onto the sofa beside her handler, held in place by heavy palms with hands pinned behind her back. Captives secured, the middleman took a seat across from the pair's male half, leaning forward to rest elbows on knees, pinstripe jacket hanging open to display the gold Desert Eagle pistol still holstered inside.

"Now then Charlie, let's try this again: what do you know about Genoa?"

"You tell me: what _should_ I know about Genoa?"

There was a pause whilst the Russian evaluated the agent opposite, then sucked air through his teeth to release it again with a pained sigh. "You know, I was looking forward to this business relationship, thought I may have found a..." he glanced at Monty, sitting stone faced beside her partner, "...kindred spirit."

"So was I... seemingly I was mistaken."

"I received a phone call all of half an hour ago, Charlie... and it was not the one I was expecting to receive. Nor was it one I _wanted_ to receive..."

The spy raised his eyebrows at that. "And this concerns me how?"

"It concerns you because I say it does. First you worm your way into my club, then demand a chance to inspect my source and a rundown of what we can supply; all of which I was willing to accept as part of doing business: hard business, but business." He paused for a second. "Now, however, I receive a message to say that an arms shipment to Genoa has been intercepted, raided at the port, one organised by the man you know as _Itri Demirer_..."

Jethro stayed silent.

"...uncanny how that should happen to be one dispatched by him just after you spoke."

In her seat, Monty gave an internal grimace: so this was what they received for trying to do the right thing and give the SWA a heads up. Next time she would be less trusting with how information was disseminated and used, even by her own side.

Now her partner looked across at his addressor. "I was only using Demirer for information, I wasn't out to ruin his business... at least no more than he was out to ruin mine."

"You will forgive me if I feel disinclined to believe you. So I will ask again: what do you know about Genoa?"

"I told you: it makes for a _rubbish_ seaside holiday, rather like Blackpool as a matter of fact."

At that the aging club owner sighed and leaned back in his seat. "Ok Charlie, I tried doing this the easy way, remember that..." now he glanced around to where his former Soviet comrade stood, "...just like the old days, Dmitri."

At those words the _Polkóvnik_ nodded, not at his friend but at the soldiers standing behind the fratello. Suddenly Monty found herself again wrenched from where she sat, realisation dawning just in time to let her take some of her artificial weight, and frogmarched to the desk chair. There she was once more restrained whilst Zinovy's seat was removed, the man himself stepping back a pace.

Sauntering toward the still held Jethro, Nabokov shrugged off his uniform jacket, handing it to his compatriot before rolling up both sleeves and sliding a slip of dull brass from one pocket to fit over bunched knuckles.

"I will ask you one more time: what do you know about the Genoa raid?"

"I told you, I don't know a bloody thing."

The first fist slammed into his stomach, doubling the spy over against the restraining arms of soldiers behind, leaving him wheezing for breath, before the next cracked into the side of his face.

"So... this is how it happens... he does the dirty work while you... hold his purse?"

More impacts: face, kidneys, stomach, and in her chair Monty went rigid, desperately fighting off the conditioned onslaught urging her to jump into the fray. It should be her in there, not him; taking the hits and absorbing the pain. The other girls could, the other girls would: but she _couldn't_ and she _wouldn't_.

_No, she wouldn't._

Not yet, there were bigger things at stake than a few bruises...

_She wouldn't._

...but of course at least one of those charges against Zinovy was for murder...

_She wouldn't._

In her seat the girl allowed frail, human hands keep her in place as muscles clenched again, forcing down bile attempting to crawl up the back of her throat whilst before her eyes the pounding continued unabated. Bide her time, keep control, and sooner or later she would get the chance to kill both of the barstards... but not _now_.

Finally Dmitri stood back, and she could regain some ground against screaming programming.

"Again: what do you know about the Genoa raid?"

"I... told you... not a damn thing. How... would I even have known... Itri was shipping... to Italy?"

"You managed to wheedle _my_ location out of him."

"Starting to... wish I hadn't. The... deal's off, by the way."

"I should think so. Genoa."

Another impact.

"Blunt force isn't... last I checked... a medically acknowledged... memory aid."

From where he stood, Dmitri glanced at his friend and, massaging at thick fingers beneath the brass knuckles, jerked his head toward the other side of the room. Taking the cue Zinovy rose from his seat, and Monty's shoulders relaxed a little as her partner slumped against smooth vinyl. Straining her ears, the cyborg turned her efforts to eavesdropping on the other pair's conversation; it was what he would want her to do. The talk was however again quiet and in Russian, and her concentration wouldn't come as little snippets wafted their way over.

"...small staff, not equipped..."

"Should have..."

"Making you front man was supposed to... happening..."

"Settle... might be better to..."

Now the club owner looked her way, and his last words came though clear. "Let's try one last thing though."

The pounding recommenced, and behind her, Monty's fists clenched as she re-entered her own internal battle.

Eventually Zinovy held up a hand to halt again. Sidling back to where Jethro sagged, the middleman knelt down before him to clench the spy's chin in a hand, grinding pummelled flesh against bone as he turned the face this way and that, inspecting the damage.

"You are still sure you know nothing of a raid in Genoa, Charlie?"

"Bloody... positive," the words were growled.

Another hit snapped the spy's head around to the side with a crack of something giving way, and blood started to stain his already damp shirt collar.

"Perhaps then you are right Charlie; hitting _you_ may not be the key."

At a jerk from the kneeling man's head, both soldiers behind lifted their captive, lolling between them, from his seat. At the same time Monty felt herself yanked skyward and thrust from behind the desk, forward to where her partner had so recently sat. As he was dragged past, her handler's eyes followed.

"Don't you bloody _dare_..."

Now the girl was dumped in place and restrained, Zinovy taking a step back to let his burly comrade stand before her grimly set features.

"Why? You think us not capable of hitting little girls?" Now he grinned nastily. "Chivalry is long dead Charlie; and all toys are made to be broken."

"Touch her and I will _tear. You. Apart_."

"Genoa."

"I told you... I _don't. Know_."

The first hit smashed into the side of Monty's face, sudden hurt rapidly fading to take rising sickness with it as Agency embedded conditioning started to work for, rather than against, the cyborg. On already sweat drenched vinyl she let relief wash through pained muscles as a second impact equalised the sensation.

Now however there was a wildness to Jethro's expression, fire in his eyes, and she caught a glimpse of it as her assailant paused.

"I said I don't bloody know!"

Another impact.

"How the _fuck _am I supposed to tell you about something I was never involved in! Let her go!"

The next hit slammed into lightly padded solar plexus, and she relaxed the muscles to prevent giving too much resistance. Gathering the last dregs of receding conditioning response behind it the girl retched, managing to jerk forward at the last moment to direct the result across the floor between her feet.

"_Genoa, _Charlie_."_

Dmitri swung again, driving knuckles into the side of his coughing victim who gritted her teeth, locking her face into a blank, silent, mask.

"_Fuck you_ Bezborodov."

"Continue."

More hits, more briefly-registered pain, and shortly the _Polkóvnik_ stood straight, turning away from his victim. "Perhaps we should just let the boys have her."

Behind the stony expression, Monty felt a chill go down her spine, and from her partner's direction came the sound of air being sucked between clenched teeth.

"No, keep both of these fresh for wiser and more experienced heads. After that, well, _who knows _what might be left, but I'm sure there will be some entertainment value to be found... even if only for the sicker minds."

With that Zinovy turned to the battered Jethro, purple bruises already starting to form on his face. "You could have been sitting down to dinner with us tonight Charlie, but instead you choose to stab me in the back."

"If that's the delusion you wish to maintain..." the words were a growl.

The cyborg hid a grimace: while her own appetite was less voracious that that of her Rome-bound sisters, having just given up what little remained of breakfast to the floor, hunger was starting to look like becoming the more problematic threat. Still, it did not look like she would be going anywhere soon...

"I doubt it is a delusion, but you will admit the truth eventually: there are others more skilled at dragging it into the open than us. Unfortunately they are not here right now, but that is just a matter of time." He sniffed. "You have managed to convince me of _one_ thing today though Charlie..." the man gestured to Monty, "...she is definitely more than some toy picked up for fun."

Changing focus he turned to the soldiers holding each fratello member, "Lock them up in the brig for tonight. The best interrogators are aging now into the quiet life, but at least one should be able to take care of these properly tomorrow."

Before anyone could move however, Dmitri raised a hand. "No, not with security; no point in spooking the regulars... Lock them up in one of the workshop store rooms, each man there is on the inside, then wait until I organise someone to relieve you."

"Yes sir."

At those words Monty felt herself lifted roughly from her seat and held momentarily until the guards manhandling her partner had taken the lead, thrusting him ahead, those carrying the slighter girl following in their wake.

As they were jostled from the room, Zinovy's voice floated after the fratello, mocking in its tone. "Goodnight Charlie, we will see you in the morning."

Four flights of stairs proved difficult, escorts forced to somehow both restrain and stabilise the slightly wobbly Jethro and his partner's emulation, latter careful not to lose her footing as her handler missed another step, falling against the soldiers' grasp. She couldn't do that, not carrying the additional mechanical pounds she did; she was already running too elevated a risk of raising eyebrows.

True to Dmitri's orders to avoid spooking those not involved in his sideline, Ilkun again appeared with the camouflaged Tigr, the fratello being hustled down front steps to it, cold biting through superfine wool suiting before the vehicle's rear door was shut behind them.

Inside was unfortunately little warmer, heater set for those with coats, and when the truncated journey across darkened parade grounds was complete both handler and cyborg were shivering violently.

Another short trip through freezing Siberian night had them inside the warmer workshop, its locker filled anteroom now empty of hung coats: the building either between shifts or abandoned by its occupants until morning. Beyond that the work area proper also stood deserted, and the party paused for a moment until an NCO appeared carrying keys, consulting with impatient guards before handing them over.

A shove from a rifle barrel between her shoulder blades had Monty moving again, as ahead a still shaking Jethro halted halfway across the floor.

"Could we at least get our coats?"

That was answered by another rough shove, sending the already cold and unsteady man staggering into a tool strewn work bench to scatter its metal jewellery clattering across the floor, and his cyborg jerked a step forward before checking herself.

"Keep moving."

Out into the chilly vehicle area and up grated stairs to the second level catwalk they were hauled, pausing again whilst another door was released for the pair to be pushed through into fresh warmth as lights flickered to life. Inside was dominated by floor to ceiling steel and plywood racking, filling its central space, packed tight with bric-a-brac related to the base's larger inventory. The left-side wall was taken up by glass windowed offices, right by doors into smaller store rooms, one of which was now swung wide for the Blackers to enter.

It slammed shut again, rattle of a lock turning adding some finality to the motion, leaving them isolated under dim incandescent bulbs. Released from her captors' grasp, Monty immediately started sifting through loaded shelves, checking behind boxes of oil filters and consumables for the vehicles below.

_Keep occupied._

This room was colder than the main store, chill leaking in through its one small window, and her hands shook as she worked, until arms wrapped her from behind. Spinning his partner to face him, one of Jethro's hands rubbed furiously at her, trying to warm the shivering girl and in response she clung tighter, causing him to wince.

At that Monty pushed back, looking up at the face above her. One eye was already starting to swell shut, whilst the cheek below it, in consort with its opposite number on the other side, bruised up, and her shivering became vibrating anger. Taking a juddering breath, she brought herself back under control. "Are you ok?"

"Fine... I think. They were out to cause pain more than inflict permanent damage... may have bruised a couple of ribs though."

There was another rattle of the lock, and from outside someone reached through to dump the fratello's heavy coats on the floor in a heap before shutting them in again.

"Well I hope Rome managed to make something useful out of all this, because for us it has not exactly gone swimmingly."

The words were a low growl, and with them the pair's younger half extricated herself from encircling arms to sweep up warm outwear, first holding her partner's garment to help the grimacing man into it, before slipping on her own extra layers and fastening them tight. Still cold, but at least not haemorrhaging heat now, she went back to completing her bug sweep.

The room wasn't large, but the shelves around its walls sported precious little empty space, slowing progress to a crawl. More boxes, more bits of truck, some electrical items and eventually, arriving back at the start, she turned to where Jethro was completing his own check to shake her head.

"Me neither... take a seat."

Stripping off his ex-Soviet coat again, the handler slid awkwardly down against cardboard cartons stacked below the window, turning thick woollen fabric over to serve as a blanket. Monty took two steps toward him, but halted quickly once he was down on hard, patched concrete, instead stopping to peer through the glass above.

Outside was dark, vehicle yard directly beyond this wall dimly lit but, farther afield, the base's perimeter remained bright under floodlights mounted on ghostly guard towers. Clouds had rolled in with the twilight, obscuring any trace of moon or stars, and occasionally a white flake of snow would drift downward through the warm glow. Aside from those however nothing stirred: no one was going to be out there more than absolutely necessary. She craned around a bit more. With nightfall the main gate's concrete barrier had also lowered, blocking all exit and entry, trapping those on site behind its monolithic bulk.

Settling beside her partner, Monty allowed him to place an arm around her shoulders, drawing her in so that she could add her own coat as a second blanket over his, two bodies close together slowly starting to drive the cold from their bones.

"The base is locked down for the night by the looks of things, so I doubt we'll be getting far until sunrise." Her voice was low, head resting on Jethro's chest.

"Hmm." It was a non-committal noise, and the man pulled her a little closer. "How are you faring?"

"I'm fine, though if we're not out of here by tomorrow I fear there may be some awkward questions start being asked as to why I'm not going all purple like you are... and there's not a lot in here we could use to formulate an escape."

That got her a twitched smile. "That I may just be able to do something about."

Maintaining a grasp on the skinny form beside him, the elder agent used his spare hand to ensure their heavy cover remained hooked over one shoulder, before slipping it inside his suit jacket for questing fingers to locate a slender, metallic cylinder; cold surface lightly knurled for grip. Extracting it, he held aloft the electric screwdriver which had been spotted earlier, and subsequently liberated as he was hurled into a laden workbench, black anodised finish dully reflecting that light which fell on it from insufficient bulbs.

Under his arm, Monty gave a wry chuckle. "I guess you could always offer to build them a cabinet in return for our freedom."

"I was thinking more along the lines of taking things apart. This is a store, not a prison cell," now he lifted her chin to look straight at her, "question is: _what?_"

Still tucked in beneath thick wool, his cyborg surveyed the room. "Your choices are pretty much limited to the door or window for leaving... the former we could try to take the guards by surprise and make a break for it."

"By the time we figured out where the guards were I fear we would be surprising ourselves as much as them... and as you mentioned: the base is locked down for the night, and all our gear is still with Dmitri on his desk."

"How do you feel about the window?"

"In my current state: a one storey drop onto concrete I could do without."

"You could always let _me_ out to come back and release the lock; and it solves the issue of stepping into the unknown..."

Jethro nodded at this. "But still leaves us the problem of the gate because, believe me, first sign of a commotion here and the whole base will come running, and if the Russians found out before we snaffle car keys back... well." He paused for a moment. "We _could_ leave it until morning when the gate goes up again, but I'm not certain when Zinovy's professional is turning up... and truthfully I have no particular urge to serve another round at being human punching bag."

"Well we can't do much of anything from in _here_."

Silence, no noise at all bar the whistle of wind around their window.

"No, we really can't..." but his voice was slow this time, "...you were happy to try the window?"

Now Monty turned slightly to look up at her partner, expression quizzical. "I haven't seen what's below it yet, but yes..."

"Good..."

"What are you thinking?" the tone was dry.

"...as you said: so long as we're locked away here we can't do anything. Now, flip that statement on its head: we can't be held responsible for anything which may go wrong for our Russian friends..."

The girl beside him cocked an eyebrow.

"...I think I may be starting to see a way out of this intact and maybe, just maybe, lop the head off this whole operation to boot."

"If we want to nip it in the bud we will need to dispose of Itri as well."

"Later." Releasing his companion the British spy was up and against their door, banging hard on it. "Hello! Helloooooo! Anyone out there? Hello! I would rather like to speak to somebody!"

From outside came the rattle of a lock and the panel was flung open, Jethro only just managing to leap back in time to avoid having his already damaged face taken off.

"Oh! Good... I don't suppose we're being fed tonight, because I'm getting quite peckish."

The soldier standing on the other side merely scowled. "Not likely."

The door was slammed shut again.

"I shall take that as a 'no'..."

The words were said to solid wood before he started back across the room, face wearing a tight half smile, somewhat distorted by swelling. It was followed by a grimace.

"Nabokov may have got a cheekbone too."

Squirming again beneath warm fabric, the man drew his still cold but no longer shivering partner in once more, and bent his head down to place lips against her ear where it rested on his shoulder.

"If we're not being fed then hopefully we'll not be disturbed either. Do you think you could make it back to the window from ground level?"

Monty shifted around to make her words more easily understood. "So long as no-one sees me."

"Which means that if you did anything outside, we could feasibly be back together in here before somebody came asking awkward questions."

"Possibly, it depends on how quickly everyone reacts... and if you're planning on doing what I think you are: while killing the two heads rids us of those most likely to wish exacted revenge, it still leaves us locked in this room... and that only works as an alibi if someone _does _eventually come back to find us. For all we know they may forget about us entirely... or not be in the mood to talk when they _do_ remember."

Arm snaking down behind her, Jethro gave his girl's thigh an encouraging pat. "Not much we can do about that until after the event and we can gauge the reaction..."

That earned him an unimpressed look.

"...but I shall put some thought to it whilst you're out."

Another moment passed.

"I'll have to leave my coat behind," put in Monty contemplatively.

Her partner's other arm joined its fellow, snaking across her front to draw the slight girl in tighter.

"We've got some time, so warm up properly first... then here's what I think we shall do."

* * *

><p>Kneeling awkwardly atop stacked cardboard boxes, Monty held the fratello's great coats over their prison's small window, blotting out its only source of light. Beneath, her handler worked his stolen screwdriver, removing the metal plate sealing her exit's frame fast, heavy fabric muffling its oscillating whine. Warmed properly again, her suit was sufficient to keep the chill at bay inside, but it would be a different story once that protective pane came open.<p>

Emerging from under makeshift sound dampening, Jethro replaced his recently acquired tool in an inside pocket, and stood back in their dimly lit room whilst his partner handed the coats over.

"Ready?"

All he received in return was a tight smile, and his girl moved to crouch at the glass, looking through.

Outside there showed no more sign of snow, but heavy cloud still obscured both moon and stars, leaving perimeter floodlights as the only source of illumination, casting wilderness beyond in their glow.

_Nothing for it._

Grabbing the window latch Monty pushed it open, and icy cold roared into the gap, stabbing at her as though the wool of her suit and cotton shirt were spun from insubstantial gossamer.

The opening wasn't large, just enough to squeeze through, and the girl stuck her head out briefly to judge her landing site. Ural trucks were reversed right up against concrete walls below, but space had been left between them for access, and it would be enough.

Pulling back into the storeroom she switched ends, going instead feet first through the small hole and twisted to hang by already chilling fingertips from the window ledge, shoe soles pressed against concrete. Casting one last glance and tight smile at her handler still waiting inside, she pushed clear.

It wasn't a long drop, and the young tracuse was able to catch her landing with ease. Not wasting any time, she headed for the workshop rear, staying low between parked vehicles.

The building's interior would be a no go; she could not risk being seen in that workspace. The more sparsely populated warehouses were a different matter however and, frankly, she needed to get out of the elements as quickly as possible. Freezing to death would be of no use to anyone, and in the Siberian winter that could be the work of minutes were she not careful.

Brushing the back of the fitters' garage, a wide access had been cleared allowing movement between it and the farther buildings. Edging that exposed ground she halted to check up and down. At one extremity lay the base perimeter but, to her right, frozen pavement stretched away to infinity: more acres of parked vehicles on one side and the stores' dark towering bulk on the other.

_All clear._

Her fingers already hurt from the cold, and Monty darted across the roadway to move fast and low just behind the first row of parked trucks, stopping to recheck her surrounds before again running the gauntlet to slip into the gap between the workshop and warehouse neighbouring it. There was a side door a few metres in from the latter's end, hopeful, but on testing it proved shut fast. Hands shaking she reached for her lock picks... not there, confiscated along with the rest of her kit.

The next door was similarly secured, and bowing to frustration the girl instead moved quickly again to the rear wall. This building was not her final destination anyway, housing small arms, and while a Kalashnikov would have been effective, ammunition was stored elsewhere. Under the circumstances there was small point in wasting more time attempting to find a way in.

Back across the clearway, up one more warehouse. She didn't even bother with the side doors on this one, instead testing the rear personnel entrance, nestled beside a tall vehicle access.

It was a very relieved cyborg whom felt the handle give way under numbing fingers.

Peeping through the crack into dimness beyond, Monty looked again for any patrolling staff, then slipped through to find herself standing in the marginally warmer shadow of stacked packing crates.

Warmer but not _warm_ and, breath crystallising in the air before her as she exhaled, she paused for half a moment to study what lay ahead. Lamps still hung high above, doing an inadequate job of illuminating concrete below; whilst beyond the dark, mountainous rows of stored equipment, toward the front door, a stronger light burned, throwing its halo skywards and casting contents between her and it into silhouette.

From its direction, just audible to acute cyborg ears, came the sound of quiet human voices made illegible by distance.

Satisfied however that she remained alone, the young agent set off, trusting dark grey garments to help conceal her against the gloom.

The warehouse floor had probably possessed some logical order to its layout in the past, but long years and increased need for capacity had blurred those outlines, turning it into something of a maze. A concerned commander would have come down like the fist of God on anyone leaving it in this state, and well they should have, but the girl doubted Dmitri would follow that expectation. Not through lacking neatness or a glut of laziness, but simply because the hodgepodge arrangement would make it easier to 'lose' items amongst the spread prior to shipment. No one without an intimate knowledge of the place could readily hope to conduct an effective audit.

Threading through darkened obstacles, Monty wrapped arms around herself, rubbing at goose bumped flesh in an effort to keep warm. She paused at another turning, trying to block the discomfort from her mind and concentrate on what she was doing; frankly she just wanted to stop, curl up into a ball and...

The girl shook herself, she had a job to do, and if she failed in it a little cold was going to be the least of Jethro or her worries.

Two more tall racks, pallets and crates which wouldn't fit piled up around their bases, slid by to deposit her at a door in the wall opposite, through which Dmitri had earlier brought her on tour. At least from here she might stand some chance of finding what she sought amongst seemingly randomly placed equipment and munitions. Doing her best to remember back to that earlier visit, the girl started again into labyrinthine depths, turning left and then right, around crates or to double back around where an entire alley had been blocked.

Stopping at a crossways, she scanned around until finally her eyes came to rest on what she hunted for. Hurrying the short distance down a side turning she halted again before low, wide boxes and, with shivering hands, lifted the already loosened lid from the topmost to display its small, spherical contents, resting amongst cardboard dividers.

Reaching inside, Monty extracted one of the RGO grenades Dmitri had shown the fratello with such pride earlier that day by its plastic cap and, inspecting the deadly little ball quickly, shoved it in a jacket pocket. That wasn't going to do the fabric much good, but she suspected this particular garment may well be a write off by the end of tonight anyway.

Pausing momentarily she reached inside again to extract a second for good measure, and slid the lid back into place. Now there was somewhere else to be, somewhere which should at least be a little warmer.

The trick was going to be getting there.

She and Jethro had agreed that, assuming Dmitri's celebratory intentions came to fruition, Zinovy, Nabokov and their cronies should be well ensconced by now somewhere in the mess. Usefully herding everyone to the same place, the theory remained also problematic in that the mess was not likely to be exactly quiet of an evening, an issue compounded by its proximity to the barracks.

That meant, even had it not been guarded, sneaking out the warehouse front into full view of both wasn't likely to happen, and she instead started to move back toward the door through which she had entered. The contingent tasked with looking after this particular facility overnight could also be a problem yet, particularly should it have colleagues similarly positioned along the row, but taking the long way around to remain concealed was not feasible either.

_Unfortunately, she was probably just going to have to make a dash for it._

If that were the case then she would be best served by getting as close to the mess as possible on this side, which meant going back to the small arms store.

Letting herself out again the young agent made her return in short order, hurrying past doors found previously locked to huddle in the shadow of the warehouse's front end, leaned up against its wall, arms once more wrapped around herself to warm numb fingers. In this cold she was going to be burning energy at an astounding rate, which if she couldn't stave it off would very shortly start causing its own problems.

Across the way her target glowed invitingly, light shining from mess hall windows along its visible flank. Difficult to tell from this angle, but those appeared to stop somewhere beyond half its length; probably where dining rooms gave way to production.

Its main entrance was positioned on one corner closest to the barracks, also spilling light into the night, and between the two regular traffic moved back and forward, rarely leaving the space deserted for more than half a minute at a stretch. Fortunately most windows on the accommodations themselves remained dark, and those lit would probably be seeing little more than their own reflections inside anyway. On the building's opposite face however stood the administration block, offices abandoned, including Nabokov's room. Letting her eyes drop from that window, down the still illuminated flagpole, she found the row of civilian vehicles: two SUVs and one Audi Allroad still under guard, though possibly not for the same reason those soldiers had originally been stationed for.

_Good, Zinovy remained present._

What she was not looking forward to was running the gauntlet of the main access road's wide asphalt strip. Those two by the cars seemed fairly disinterested, huddled in the lee of their vehicle, facing away, and she could also ensure the barracks footpath remained clear, but there was little to be done about those inside the warehouses or in their bunks; beyond hoping they were otherwise distracted.

Teeth chattering Monty peeked back around to watch as another pair of soldiers wandered to the mess, stopping briefly to stub out cigarettes before entering, and she was just about to make a dash for it when another movement caught her eye. Back by the flagpole, one of the guards had stood up, stretched, and uttered something to his mate before, hands thrust in coat pockets, ambling toward the administration block main entrance. As he departed the second man turned around to lean against their GAZ truck's bonnet, drawing on his own smoke, apparently lost in the slowly drifting movement of a searchlight, lancing out from a guard tower as its occupants checked on some imagined wraith beyond the wire.

Pinned in shadow, the young spy dared not move, instead huddling as tight as she could in chill breeze, its zephyrs eddying between walls to wash her with icy fingers. She wanted to crouch down, curl up, hold what little precious body heat remained, but any such movement would give her away.

After what seemed an eternity the second guard re-emerged, buttoning up his coat as he went, calling out to his mate. Responding, the second guard turned back as both resumed leaning against their truck, backs again to the world.

Wasting no time, Monty glanced across to ensure she remained unobserved and dashed out into the open. It was difficult in the freezing night, numb hands and feet powered by protesting muscles, each icy breath searing her lungs, but the cyborg went flat out, sprinting as hard as she could. Right now was not the time to fake humanity... maybe anyone who saw her would file that vision in with the yeti: a figment of cold, bored, overactive imagination.

No shouts of anger flew after her and she slid to a halt, panting, against frozen concrete. Dropping into a crouch she looked along the mess wall; its windows did indeed end farther up and, staying low beneath them, she started down its length.

From inside floated sounds of levity in Russian, clinks of glasses and tap of cutlery on ceramics, the occasional body sailing across warmly lit glass above her head, casting its silhouette over frozen ground and onto the building opposite: a pantomime meal attended by shadow puppets.

Finally the bright panes disappeared, bookended by a door set in concrete. Reaching up, the still crouched girl tried its handle.

_Locked._

Not unexpected, but she would have to keep moving. Ahead, light spilled from the back of the mess hall, a couple of stacked crates standing proud of the wall along which she slunk, probably overflow from a loading dock there: a blessing in disguise. On the upside a loading dock entrance was likely to be left open, however the reason for doing so was to relieve a regular flow of busy personnel from the rigmarole of locking and unlocking doors.

Unfortunately beggars could not be choosers.

Scampering up to the protruding pile, Monty peaked around the wall. There was indeed a loading dock back here, well lit, with a raised stage in order to roll supplies directly from the back of a truck and ramp to the ground terminating just before where she hid. More crates and cardboard cartons were stacked upon the concrete of both levels, and as she watched a pair of windowed double doors swung open to give way to a hurrying cook in military uniform. Pausing for a moment he turned right, along the stage then quickly down the ramp to ground level, the watching spy tumbling backwards out of sight as he lifted one of the plastic baskets on which she had rested. Stacking it atop another to carry both, the man turned awkwardly back whence he had come.

Picking herself up, the Agency girl glanced at what had been collected: whole frozen chickens, left outside in the winter ice.

_Right now refrigeration was probably something of a moot point._

The doors banged back and forward again and, wasting no time, she dashed around her cover and across the concrete truck station, vaulting awkwardly up the small retaining wall to its loading platform before the double hinged panels stilled.

Creeping low to them, Monty lifted herself up to peek through frost-edged glass.

Beyond lay another set of identical doors, forming an airlock, through the windows of which she could see a deserted corridor, the cook turning at its end. That was the best chance she was going to get and the girl pushed her way quietly inside.

Warmth hit her, washing across her body, but there was no time to enjoy it now. She was too exposed here and, dodging through another door on her right, found herself in a darkened store room. Acrid scent assaulted her nostrils, the smell of caustic chemicals, and as her vision quickly adjusted she made out mops and brooms leant against its walls, bottles and buckets of cleaner stacked on tall shelves. Those her eyes followed upwards, finally reaching the ceiling, and in the gloom she gave a thin smile: there in the roof was exactly what she needed.

Checking her two grenades remained secure, Monty quickly scaled wood and steel racking, careful not to pull it down on herself, and pushed open the manhole cover above. Finding solid purchase inside, she squirmed up into the roof cavity, dropping the removable panel back in place.

It was even warmer up here, heat from lights and kitchens accumulating in the void, trapped by thick insulation hung from joists above her head, separating it from harsh Siberian night. Now concealed from view, the half frozen girl allowed herself a moment to luxuriate in its embrace, numb extremities slowly beginning to thaw.

Opening eyes again she looked around. It was far from completely dark up here, or silent for that matter, warm light leaking up through ceiling fittings, vents and cracks below her, reflecting from dull galvanised ducting to sparkle off dust disturbed by her entrance. With it came chattering conversation and, louder, the crash and profanities of busy kitchens at service.

Right now she was going to be directly over those; placed in easy reach of the food store and bins. At a guess the main day-to-day mess halls were probably close to the front, with their bain-maries of hot food awaiting hungry soldiers. However, if Dmitri planned on holding a function, he would want a private room; likely closer to where meals of visiting dignitaries or high ranking officers would not get cold arriving by a steward's hand.

Careful to remain atop solid steel beams, the girl began to edge her way along the building's length.

Glancing down, her sight lined up on one of the vents into the space below to see the cook from before pick up his chickens in a pressed steel dixie and spin around, just in time to crash into a scurrying kitchen hand, sending the birds flying. As she moved on, what could only be assumed as additional profanity roared skyward.

_Waste of good food._

Those responsible for the unwitting shadow puppet show earlier had been busy and moving; no guarantee of exclusion as Dmitri's event, but not what would be expected of a sit-down meal either. However the space had also been large, too large for what it sounded like the commander had been planning, and Monty altered course to shuffle closer to the barracks facing wall.

Another vent passed beneath her, this one offering a glimpse of plates spread out in rows, one chef doling out portions of food whilst a second followed behind, arranging garnish and wiping china... good sign. Hopefully that meant she was on the right track. Ahead, beyond the rough stub of a structural wall at some more major division, another sparkling column of motes floated in light filtered up from below, and she slid toward it. Remaining back from angled slats to crouch in shadow, she peered down between pressed metal louvres.

Below, a long table was set under white linen, plates and condiments arranged neatly along its length with uniformed men and the occasional woman sitting over them, squeezed between solid timber and plaque-hung, dark painted walls. Most in her field of view were younger though, lieutenants and lower, not exactly what she had expected...

As she watched however, a side door opened and Junior Lieutenant Ilkun stepped through, shuffling around the table to take a seat next to a pretty blond of similar rank. Sipping at his wine, the young man turned to his companion, beginning to talk.

_Perhaps she _was_ in the correct place then._

There was certainly an occasional mature laugh floated to her ears through the chatter and, circling the vent 180 degrees, Monty looked down again on the other half of the table. This was more like what she had envisaged: majors and colonels, all in their mid to late fifties if she were any judge; definitely more how she had pictured an "old guard" to appear. Seemingly someone had split the table into children and adults.

Searching their number, the cyborg quickly found her targets, Zinovy's civilian garb standing proud amongst the array of grey dress uniforms, picked out directly beneath down lights angled to illuminate crossed colours at the head of the room.

Rolling back up onto the balls of her feet, she lifted the two grenades from her pockets, weighing them in her hands. Now she just had to fathom how best to deliver them, preferably without getting herself killed or caught in the process. With a lethal radius of twenty metres, one should make a decent mess of a room that size, but disposing of the other would be difficult were it not used.

_Best to be sure._

More pertinently perhaps, and choice of one or two munitions aside, their fragments would come straight up through thin plasterboard beneath her feet like molten steel through butter.

Looking down again she studied the flimsy ceiling: it was going to require a hole made somehow anyway, and no stroke of genius would be required to figure out where the explosives had come from; but that didn't mean she had to be nearby. Ideally she would try to be above the kitchens when they went off, in the hope its concrete dividing wall directed their concussion and flying metal away.

_That was the theory at least._

Her extremities were warmer now, enough to regain some of the co-ordination lost earlier and, stuffing both grenades once more in her pockets, Monty scampered quietly back to the manhole.

Lifting its panel clear she reached down to retrieve a heavy, twenty kilogram bucket of washing powder, before pausing for a moment to eye the dark void now exposed. Shaking her head she left it open: speed was going to have to trump stealth here.

Carrying her bucket the girl shuffled carefully forward again and, selecting a patch of ceiling somewhere just ahead of where Zinovy sat, stopped where she felt she could reasonably aim from. That put her on the wrong side of the wall, but not by far.

Extracting the grenades again, the cyborg held them in her off hand; right giving the bucket a few experimental swings, feeling its movement and letting momentum build.

_Here goes._

Bringing the weight back one final time she swung forward to gently lob its solid mass away in a graceful underarm arc, high in the air, letting gravity take a good hold before it slammed into flimsy boarding.

The ceiling resisted briefly then, with an almighty crash, gave way, sending the powder filled container tumbling through in a cascade of plaster. From the room below came a shout, but both grenades were already at Monty's fingertips, pins out and spoons spinning off into the gloom as the deadly explosives were released to follow their trailblazer's lazy trajectory.

All duties performed the girl leapt away, racing atop the beam as her farewell package dropped out of sight beyond its ragged entry.

Another shout, this one pitched with terror, and she threw herself flat as behind both grenades went off in rapid succession, one-two concussions shaking the building with their report. Screaming shrapnel filled the dining room, scything through flesh, bone and clothing alike to tear at the structure itself, embedding in walls, plaster, wood and the insulation bound roof, that which was not trapped clattering back into rising clouds of dust below.

It was all over in a fraction of a moment. Still sliding along painted steel the young agent rolled back upright and leapt again, dropping through her open manhole to the chemical cupboard below. Wasting no time she was into the corridor, crashing out loading dock doors to sprint for the safety of darkness beyond its lights' harsh glare. She couldn't go right: too bright, too populated, too open, and instead curved away toward the abandoned barracks, disappearing behind their derelict bulk. At her back sirens began to howl, wailing across the heads of more people streaming out of the mess and chocking dust, soldiers from the front and kitchen staff through rear doors, shouts rising amongst the hubbub as a satisfied snarl left her lips.

Right now though, there was nothing to do but run.

So Monty ran.

* * *

><p>Huddled back down again beneath both coats, Jethro felt the twin thuds, heard the sirens, as outside a chair crashed over to a soundtrack of Russian swearing.<p>

Boots thumped past his prison towards the front of the building.

A moment passed.

Then they came thundering back, followed by the rattle of keys in the lock and his door was flung open to reveal one of Dmitri's soldiers, Yarygina pistol unholstered.

The handler looked up at him. "What the hell was that!?"

"None of your business! Your girl under there?"

He tightened his grip on the stack of boxes filling in for his partner.

"Look around you, where the hell else could she have gone?"

"Is she!?"

"_Yes,_ she's _cold_. _Still._ You might have wanted to give us our coats a little _bloody_ earlier."

There was a pause, then door slammed shut again and the boots receded to slam another door, disappearing down the vehicle shop stairs.

Jethro Blacker gave a little sigh of relief.

_Come back to me luv, come on back._

* * *

><p>Monty's heart raced, and she peered again around the end of this derelict barracks as, out on the road, another two soldiers ran past, headed for the scene of disaster. Assuming all the warehouses were manned in similar fashion, they had to be getting on toward the last.<p>

Her initial adrenalin spike was starting to wear off now, and into its place the cold began to creep back.

_No time to lose then._

Continuing away from the mess to put additional distance between herself and it, she scampered up the back of the first warehouse on this side of the road, then down its far flank to look out across open asphalt. No one coming from deeper in the base, hopefully that meant anyone who was on their way had already arrived.

Her eyes flicked the other direction. Fire fighting trucks were arriving at the lightly smouldering building there as people spread out around it, their attention however focused inward, concentrated on rescue now. At this range, even if one did look up, she would be little more than a ghostly silhouette against dull backlighting anyway.

Sparing one last glance along the road she dashed out, keeping her pace down now to that of a fast sprinter: a human saboteur running for their life rather than a wraith in the night of someone's fevered imagination.

This time there _was_ a shout and, not stopping to find out for whom it was uttered or why, Monty disappeared down the side of the next warehouse.

Coming to a halt at its tail end, the girl peered into the yard beyond. Searchlights now swept the base as each occupied tower turned its attention inside the wire, pencil beams tracking back and forward over rows of vehicles parked there, sending shadows dancing and twirling in their wake. This would take timing, and the spy withdrew into darkness as one washed over her position.

Hiding in gloom she hunkered down as trucks roared past on the road at her back, headed deeper into the facility... apparently that shout _had_ been for her, and now someone else had been alerted. Highly probable whoever that someone was had decided she wouldn't be trying to get out the main entrance, which was a reasonable enough assumption. The logical thing to do then would be to try and overtake her, cut her off on the airfield side, before sweeping back down her exit line. With the open road on one flank and high, wire topped concrete walls to the other; it would form an inescapable net...

_...had that route actually been her intention._

Farther up the yards bright headlights cut in from the warehouses' road side, thundering transports screeching to a halt to disgorge their passengers, waving bright torches in the night. As she watched, those dancing beams started to spread out in a line, the occasional silhouetted rifle visible amongst dark human forms.

Another searchlight washed across the building she hid behind, and again the young agent peeked out. That light was swinging away, but travelling the opposite direction another threatened to pin her in its gaze.

From up the yard came a shout; the search line had formed, and now started moving slowly down rows of mothballed vehicles, torches lancing ahead of it.

_She had no time left._

Eyeing once more the approaching brightly lit circle, Monty took a deep mental breath and sprinted out across the clearway, into the maze of trucks beyond, scooting under one of the high Urals as the perimeter sentries' attention swept across her.

Crouched low, the girl stole a moment to look toward her destination, and her heart sank. Torches waved there also, swaying back and forth to cast more patches of light amongst the towers' dancing giants. Someone had seemingly wanted an insurance policy, and intended to pincer her.

Glancing back, the tight packed line of soldiers there was getting closer; investigating beneath tall chassis, in cabs and under the canvas structures covering otherwise open load trays.

She turned again toward the forward searchers: their numbers were smaller and moving quicker, but were also farther away. If she were to stand any chance of evading capture, of seeing her handler again, her best shot was with the sparser group; but at the rate it approached she would first need to close in, or otherwise risk it not reaching her in time.

Another spotlight washed across her position then she was up and running, hunkered low to the ground, using her slight adolescent build to stay out of gaps between rows of vehicles and instead under their bellies.

Another light, another stop, another start.

She could better distinguish individuals in the forward line now, and it appeared to thin the greater its extent from the road. From out there it would be more difficult to make it back to her workshop window of course; but just right now merely getting far enough to encounter that problem at all would be cause for celebration.

Slipping to the tail of the Ural she currently sheltered beneath the girl crouched beside a hulking wheel, using steel and rubber to shield herself from prying eyes advancing up this row. The cold beam of a powerful LED torchlight flicked back and forth before her, flashing off grills and bodywork it passed across, throwing their features into sharp relief or disappearing for scant seconds as its owner investigated a cab or tray.

None of the gaps were long, and she studied again the truck opposite, its nose lower set than the metal she currently hid below to contain both engine and drive train. Her chances of getting under there cleanly and in a hurry were slim... and it had to be clean: there was no mud in a store room, no dirt to mar wool suiting.

_No, they were too close, she had left this too late._

Growling at herself for the lapse in judgement, Monty shuffled slightly forward again, reaching up to haul her body amongst solid chassis girders. Their steel was icy to touch, and she tried to keep her suit sleeves away and clean, at the same time maintaining shirt fabric as a barrier to prevent freezing her own skin to brittle metal.

Squirming backwards the girl hunkered down between the military truck's rear wheels, above their axles to conceal herself as best possible. Hopefully she wouldn't need to run, but if she were spotted, then the game was up anyway.

And so she waited.

Stopped again the cold crept back, bludgeoning its way through other concerns to batter directly at her conscious, and she found herself shivering uncontrollably, realisation dawning that her extremities had long ago fallen again into numbness. Fight or flight had been enough to keep those sensations at bay, but now they returned with a vengeance, worse than before, the deep chill never having been fully eradicated by her short time indoors.

Torches flashed closer, shouted talk between soldiers floating through dense air clear as day.

"Nothing."

"Nothing here either."

"Did you check the cab?"

"Da... I bet he's headed for the back anyway."

"Stow it. Move up to the next line."

They were only one row away now, and Monty clamped down on her jaw to still chattering teeth, little puffs of rapidly crystallising steam leaving her nostrils.

"All clear. Move up again."

She held her breath.

The truck under which she hid rocked slightly as someone stood upon its running board to peer into the driver's seat. It was a rudimentary check at best and soon the chassis rocked again, winter-stiffened springs and bushings creaking as they were forced into reluctant life, probably for the first time in months, if not years. Now the torch's owner started to flash his light across the ground below the vehicle, boots slowly crunching their way up its length, and the hidden spy tried to press herself higher into the murk beneath drab bodywork.

The white beam again disappeared, suspension protesting once more as the same searcher mounted the rear bumper to look into the tray before jumping down.

"Clear here."

"Are you sure? You realise if we reach the others with nothing in hand it will be us who shoulder the blame."

"Positive."

"Move on then."

The sound of boots receded across frozen pavement, and Monty dared breathe. She would have loved to remain concealed, let the searchers clear completely, but if she stayed much longer exposed to the elements she would be lucky to make it back inside.

With that thought the girl started to shuffle forward, out from atop rear axles, as the soldiers started up another row. She was almost there when suddenly her arm gave way and she dropped, just managing to get unfeeling feet under herself to avoid slamming face first into the ground.

_No, definitely could not stay out much longer._

Scampering as quickly as she dared, as quickly as ungainly legs would allow, the young fugitive continued her journey until she stood in line with the maintenance workshop, able to look directly between its wall and the Urals parked stern in, broadside on to her position.

Sliding out from under the truck serving as her current cover, she hunkered down beside its front wheel to listen through painful, burning ears. From behind, deeper in the base, shouts pierced the night: the two search lines had met... and someone was not happy.

So long as they argued however that was a bonus, and grasping the distraction's proffered opportunity she dashed forward, toward the road, only halting as she again reached the clearway running up the buildings' rear faces. Pausing, she peeked around the nose of the closest truck to draw an eye on her pursuers.

There was indeed a huddle going on there, more torches flashing this way and that as the involved parties gesticulated above their heads: her first bit of good luck all night.

Glancing around to ensure the coast remained clear she was just in time to see another tower spotlight swing toward her and, not waiting for it to get any nearer, was up and running across open ground to duck beneath the next vast chassis.

Here, fortunately, the combination of vehicles and building shielded her from the bulk of observers, and she was able to make rapid progress along the wall's cracked concrete face to stand below her handler's window.

_Now came the tricky part._

Waiting for another spotlight to slide away, the girl knelt down to retrieve a speck of gravel from the ground. Taking careful aim she sent it spinning at the glass pane above, from which it rebounded with a little tick to fall back to earth, bouncing off a taut canvas tray cover to skitter across pavement.

Now the pencil beam of one of the gate towers started to swing her way, and she pressed herself against the truck closest it, hiding in its shadow.

Hopefully Jethro had heard her.

The tower's attention washed over her position before continuing its scan across the vehicles beyond and, as it did so, there was a creak from above. Looking up Monty saw the window standing open, beckoning her in.

It was a small target, and pushing off frigid metal at her back the cyborg stumbled another step away from the wall, into the centre of the narrow aisle she now occupied. Her legs ached, extremities numb on clumsy, leaden limbs, but it was the last obstacle and, taking two running steps she hurled herself at it.

Icy wind rustled past and, as she flew, an isolated part of her brain noted the gate tower light coming back...

Then the wall was there and she slammed into it, scrabbling fingers finding purchase enough on the window sill to haul herself though, tumbling over boxes below as her partner wrenched the glass shut, dodging out of view again just in time.

Crouched where she had cushioned her landing, barely, on the concrete floor, the shivering girl felt warm arms envelop her, pulling heavy fabric over her shoulders and, as the world swam, she allowed herself to collapse into them.

* * *

><p>The clump of boots approaching jolted Jethro from the half doze his mind inhabited, waiting for someone to remember his presence. Its retreat however brought into stark focus the sharp ache of his tailbone where it pressed against unyielding concrete, unable to move thanks to the gently breathing shape nestled in his arms: only one of a litany of twinges assaulting his senses, but the one currently standing front and centre.<p>

Fortunately there was some recompense as, now buried bodily under the fratello's great coats, Monty curled in close against him, still cool to touch, scavenging what heat she could as her fuel-less body struggled to re-warm itself.

From outside drifted voices, followed by the rattle of a lock and the store's door swung open to reveal a black Kalashnikov muzzle. That was chased by a soldier in full battle dress who, like stage actors emerging for their final curtain call, was in turn replaced in the slender frame by Junior Lieutenant Ilkun, looking somewhat the worse for wear in singed and dirty dress uniform. Fallen plaster still floated in mussed hair above a face cut and grazed, but wearing an outwardly stoic expression; terror and bewilderment however lapping just behind tired eyes.

"Is your girl here?" the Russian words were sharp.

Jethro grasped his weakened partner tighter. "What of it?"

"_Is_ she?"

Reaching out from beneath heavy woollen coverings, the spy cautiously peeled back grey fabric to display his now stirring cyborg's head, and the Lieutenant turned to someone out of sight. "See? I _told_ you that idea was crazy."

"What happened?"

That earned a sharp look. "Nothing concerning you, but _Polkóvnik _Nabokov and Bezborodov are dead. I want you gone with all traces of your presence before any investigators arrive, and I'm sure you don't want to be here either..." behind the young officer, his out-of-sight companion stepped forward, revealed to be their guard from earlier, carrying a cardboard box. "...I brought your effects, so take them and leave. We will wait downstairs for you."

Beside her partner Monty was now fully awake, gathering herself together apparently more by force of will than anything else, and the elder of the pair helped her upright before assisting to don suit jacket and coat.

Ilkun had turned toward the door now, preceded again by the battle-ready guard and, snatching his own suit jacket, Jethro stepped forward quickly to grab him by the elbow.

"A moment of your time?"

"Wait," the order was sharp again as the young man turned back into the room, "_what_."

Jethro kept his voice gentle and low. "What's your name?"

The tone had its intended effect, and the Junior Lieutenant's Adam's apple bobbed before he spoke. "Vladimir."

"Well Vladimir, you're right: I don't particularly want anyone finding out where we were, so here's a word of friendly but self-interested advice: I'm hazy as to what happened, and if that's how you intend to leave me then so be it, but concerning this little visit make sure you get _everything_. That's emails, correspondence with third parties, phone records... lose Nabokov's phone somehow if need be and make it look like an accident, but get _anything_ which may point to our presence, because I can assure you anyone sent through to investigate will be looking for someone to blame, and they'll take any opportunity they can to lay it on whoever's left standing."

Vladimir did not respond, but turned back out. "Get moving, we will wait for them downstairs."

Monty was already dressed, slowly buttoning up her coat, and as he retrieved his own effects the handler looked at her. "How are you faring?"

"I think we should get to the car as quickly as possible."

Double checking nothing had been left behind the man thrust on his ushanka and stuffed those remaining possessions quickly in the coat's deep pockets. Not waiting to seal it, he slipped an arm around his girl to direct her toward the door.

Steep vehicle shop stairs proved something more of a challenge, and the spy felt his partner falter, leaning heavily on the restraining arm to prevent tumbling down as, true to his word, their escort waited below. Before the Blackers had even arrived at ground level however, he and the guards disappeared into the workshop proper.

Still grasping the delicate, waiflike form beside him protectively, Jethro followed them through to feel blessed warmth wash across him. It would be too easy to dawdle here and, allowing the Russians to draw a little ahead, the spy sidled close along one work bench to quietly slide his little electric screwdriver back whence it had come. As he did so, he felt Monty draw a deep breath, before squaring her shoulders and pulling away to walk unaided to where the soldiers stood waiting for them in the front locker room.

Outside dark windows night still enveloped the base, and guard tower spotlights continued to track back and forward over ice-carpeted ground, flecks of snow once again glinting as they floated through the beams.

Making a quick headcount, Vladimir looked back at his charges. "We shall have to walk I am afraid."

With that he pushed open the door, letting freezing air roar around the party as it set out across the parade square, hurrying as best it could. Now afforded an open, clear view, Jethro was careful not to let his eyes linger too long on the mess: from out here there was a surprising lack of visible damage, but then Monty's grenades had been designed to kill people, not level walls.

At that he glanced down at the girl. She was keeping up, barely, and he was just raising a hand to demand a slowing of pace when a small shake of her head stopped him. As far as these people were concerned she had spent the last hours in a relatively warm store room: not contracting hypothermia and running herself down to teeter on the brink of collapse.

They were closer now, and the Audi stood alone where it had been left that morning; Zinovy's two Mercedes SUVs seemingly long departed, fresh dustings of snow behind where they had rested devoid of scars to mark their passing.

Rounding the flagpole, Vladimir motioned his guards off, and turned to the fratello, leaning in as if to shake hands. "They will let you out the gate, now be gone."

"Good luck."

"And to you, I trust though you will excuse me if I say I hope you do not come back."

"I think we could."

With that the Russian turned away, leaving the fratello to hurry toward their car, its hazards flashing and lights coming up invitingly at Jethro's press of the fob.

Wrenching open the passenger side door, the handler set his girl inside and leaned across her to push the key into its slot. Hopefully there would be liquid fuel enough still in insulation wrapped lines to get it running without further ado, because right now the cabin needed warming as quickly as possible. Pressing down on the ignition he waited, agonising seconds, as the dashboard pre-heater indicator glowed tauntingly... then the starter whined, followed by a cough, and another before finally the Teutonic diesel clattered to wavering life, hunting as it struggled against near-frozen vital fluids.

Drawing back the handler turned efficient seat warmers up to maximum, then the rear-window demister: anything which might help dispel the cabin's chill a little faster. Job complete the next stop was to reach into the glovebox at his girl's knees, from whence was withdrawn a packet of jelly babies he had hoped to never use: fast sugar for a crashing cyborg.

Tearing open the bag he placed it in Monty's shivering hands so she could eat, before closing her door to commence an abbreviated walk around of the Audi, running a gloved hand under its sills, looking inside wheel arches and behind bash plates. Under the bonnet was also given a quick inspection before being shut again, and the handler settled into his own seat. The engine was stabilising now, enough that it felt somewhat safe to put a bit of load on: no point in waiting around for minds to be changed.

Inside the Allroad remained icy, but his leather chair and steering wheel were starting to warm through as Jethro reversed out. Selecting drive, babying the throttle under cautious feet, he turned toward the gate. In the cold beams of approaching headlamps, its concrete portcullis started to slowly grind upward and, from the passenger seat, came the rustle of a sweet packet being closed. "The Russians had this and its keys for a long time, we're going to want to give everything a good once over."

The words were quiet but, slowing slightly, the man looked over at his partner, now huddled again beneath a reversed coat to capture heat oozing up around her in its thick folds.

"Soonest chance we get."

Ahead, their escape's monolithic form locked into position and the booms beyond shot up, soldiers beside those beckoning the car on. Not requiring any more invitation, Jethro swept out underneath its hanging bulk onto the dark, open road beyond.

**To Be Continued.**


	14. Epilogue

**AND THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES**

_A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction, based on works by Yu Aida._

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><p><em>Authors note: So this wraps up <em>And the Adventure Continues_. Thanks to anyone who has been silly enough to stick with me this far, I hope it was worth the effort... and this certainly is not the end for Jethro+Monty._

_As always, special thanks to Professor Voodoo for the continued use of Genco Ribisi, and Sam Tyler belongs to the BBC._

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><p><strong>EPILIOGUE <strong>

Scotland had always welcomed those of independent spirit, offering sanctuary and retreat from the world amongst its craggy landscape. Beyond tall, arched windows, framed by thick velvet and sheer fabric curtains, the high walls of Edinburgh Castle stood just visible above rooftops and bare trees, painted into soft relief by dull morning sunlight.

Placing his nearly bare breakfast tray to one side, Jethro Blacker relaxed back into downy pillows, listening as sounds of the street below wafted skyward to seep muted past double glazing alongside that picturesque scene. Somewhere down there people were going to school or work, out shopping or enjoying the seasonal ice-rink and winter fair set up below the towering edifice of Castle Rock: normal, everyday undertakings, distant and distorted.

One hand reached up to brush against a patch of wadding still taped to his face, protecting battered tissue and bones. Apparently it could come off shortly, but for now he was instructed, on no uncertain terms, to rest; and _someone_, for once, was taking doctor's orders very seriously indeed.

But that was endurable, and right now he was perfectly content to lay here and enjoy the view.

Spending another moment to drink in far sights his eyes shifted closer, back over the city and through this expensively furnished hotel apartment to where a skinny figure perched prettily on the edge of their bed, just out of reach.

Feeling his gaze upon her, Monty rustled newspaper pages again, flipping it back on itself to easier handle the broad sheets, looking more closely at a small side-column article.

"Here we are: '_Police have released the identity of a suspected suicide victim found dead in his Manchester hotel room two weeks ago. Now identified as Hakan Ahmed Çelebi, a Turkish national in the UK on business, his death has yet to be linked to suspicious circumstances. Reiterating assertions that investigations are continuing however, Detective Chief Inspector Sam Tyler of the Manchester Police has asked that anyone acquainted with Mr. Çelebi come forward should they feel able to bring information to the case. Authorities have been unable to make contact with any of Mr. Çelebi's relatives, and as such his remains are scheduled to be repatriated to his native Turkey for burial later next week'."_ From where she sat the girl looked at her partner, "Sounds like they're close to calling it a day."

"That would be nice, though an extra little while to let things cool completely won't hurt lest MI5 decide to take an interest..."

"You don't have anyone who could keep them off our backs?"

"Possibly, but calling in favours when not required is something I would rather eschew... Besides, we're stuck here at least another week until I get given a green light."

That earned a disapproving look. "Had you seen a doctor earlier they may have avoided needing to re-break your cheek bone."

"You know as well as I Demirer needed dealing with before he found opportunity to talk to anyone." Now the recumbent man grinned, wincing slightly, "Besides, the Scots have a better bedside manner than the Italians, and they do house calls."

"I still think..."

"Yes dear."

That was met with another unimpressed look, and the handler shrugged. "Look at it this way luv: we've nothing so urgent it needs to be chased up immediately. Genco's still fine-tooth-combing your report in the hope it clears up some loose ends, or explains Anasetti, and the printing press is long gone; we lost our chance there the minute we boarded the wrong flight out of Cyprus..."

"We really are just about back to square one on that..."

"Almost. Not quite, but almost."

Now the girl looked pensive, broadsheet hanging loosely from one hand. Then she sighed. "There are still too many questions: that, Nick and Shamus, Moratti, Mary, Anasetti... reading between the lines Rome is still climbing walls over _his_ incident."

"Another good reason to avoid them if we intend to make headway on any of the above... though of course, when they get a bee in their bonnet, our lords and masters have a tendency to call whether we want to chat or not." Reaching across his tray Jethro picked up the china coffee cup still nestled there to drain its last tepid dregs, careful not to spill any on white sheets.

"I would prefer not..." Resting on the room's small table, Monty's computer binged: new mail, and leaving the paper in reach of her partner's grasp its owner stood, smoothing out imagined creases in her black skirt before looking back at him. "...but when Rome says jump..."

"...where to this time?"

**And The Adventure Continues.**


End file.
